


May Death Never Stop You

by kadaransmuggler



Series: rise in perfect light [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Flemeth's plot magic, Platonic Sex, Polyamory, Reincarnation, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-27 00:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 79,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6261112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kadaransmuggler/pseuds/kadaransmuggler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A high school student wakes up near Ostagar before the big battle. This is (most of) her story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. there's no place like home

Arya Huskins woke up slowly, her head aching with an intensity that nearly made her sick. She was, most of all, confused, unable to pinpoint her location. _Where am I?_ she thought. _Didn't I fall asleep in class?_ Even without waking up, though, Arya could feel grass underneath her and her backpack. She wondered if perhaps her friends had played a joke on her, taking her out of the building while she slept and leaving her in the grassy courtyard, although she wondered _how_. She was heavy, and her backpack even moreso, and whoever managed to lift both of them and carry them to the pavilion was, well, impressive. And none of her friends could exactly do that. She cracks open her eyelids, and when the sky stops spinning above her, she sits up slowly, raising a hand to her head and one to her mouth. Her stomach lurches and twists uncomfortably, and finally she gives up trying to combat the nausea and shrugs her shoulders out of her bag, managing to make it a few feet away before she lands hard on her hands and knees, emptying the contents of her stomach into a conviently placed bush. When she finished, she scurried away again before the smell of sick could get to her, and she dragged her pack over to her, digging around for some gum that she knew was in there somewhere. She took a moment to look around while she was elbow deep in her bag, and then it hit her. She wasn't at school anymore, and she didn't even recognize any of the nearby landmarks.   
  
"What the fuck?" she muttered, abandoning her search for gum. Sudden panic swamped her. "Oh, goddess. Dad's going to flip. Mom's going to flip. I'm going to flip right now," she mumbled, pulling her phone out of her jacket pocket. It was, unfortunately, dead, and she let out a long stream of curses. She started to throw it, but thought better of it and instead tucked it back into her pocket. "Dammit all to fuck," she cursed, while she pulled out her laptop. Maybe she could get some more information, even if it was only the time. Maybe her friends had even left her a message before so kindly leaving her in the middle of nowhere. Tragically, however, the time was frozen at 9:25a.m. Which was when she last checked it in class. She let out another long stream of curses, rocking back on her heels and forcing herself to take deep, even breaths. She put her laptop away, jerked the zipper closed on her backpack, and stood, dusting off her jeans before throwing her bag over her shoulder.   
  
The nearest structure was just barely visible in the distance, and she didn't recognize it, either. It looked remarkably like a ruin, though, and if she weren't freaking out, she probably would have been excited. Instead, she was terrified as she hitched her bag higher on her shoulders and started walking, thankful that she'd worn comfortable shoes instead of the heels she had so nearly put on. As she got closer, the sun was high in the sky, and she noticed people practically swarming the ruin. As she got even closer, she noticed that they had swords. And armor. And not the shitty props that people usually had. Then she noticed all the stars, and groaned. Her backpacked weighed as much as a small child, and climbing those stairs was not something she looked forward to, but she soldiered on. She did, however, take note of the strange looks she was getting as she drew near, and she put most of her focus on not panicking and doing something stupid.   
  
Arya took a deep breath to steady herself and then approached the nearest person, a kind-looking man who was sitting on a stump polishing his sword. And for once, she really wished that was a euphemism. "Hi, so, uh, I kinda got really lost. As in, I don't even know where to start with how lost I am. Could you tell me where I am?" she asked, trying her best to be polite. She worried that she'd stumbled on a cult, and she really hoped she didn't offend them because what if they were the type of cult that was completely okay with human sacrifice? She didn't want to be a sacrifice. Instead, however, the man looked up at her and smiled. "Of course, miss. You're at Ostagar, in the Korcari Wilds. Were you fleeing from the darkspawn?" he asked. _Oh, fuck me sideways. Darkspawn, Korcari Wilds, Ostagar....wasn't this all a little Dragon Age-y?_ she thought, although she kept a polite smile on her face. "I was. They attacked and I just started running. I haven't looked back since," she answered, brushing her hair out of her eyes. Internally, however, she decided that this was all most likely a dream. She was still in English class, drooling on her expensive textbook, with friends who were drawing obscene things on her, and a teacher who was probably 200% done with her shit.   
  
"Well, perhaps you can find some assistance deeper in the camp," the man said, and Arya nodded, making a hasty retreat. Despite having firmly decided that this was indeed a dream, Arya shifted her backpack on her shoulders and headed up the stairs. She got a little distracted when she saw the kennel master, who ignored her completely, although she also saw the dogs. They were huge, and they could easily have weighed two-hundred pounds each. She wanted six. After an embarrasingly long amount of time spent watching the dogs, she thought she should probably move on. Which she did. And, for her effort, she got a face-full of gleaming, golden plate metal. She bounced off, almost comically, and craned her neck back to look up at the face of the person wearing the golden armor she had so boldly introduced herself too, almost crying when she realized who it was.   
  
"Shi...Sorry!" she squeaked, trying to duck away from him. He reached out almost automatically, grabbing her arm and anchoring her into place. _I am so fucked_ , she thought, but he merely gave her a curious look.  She had no idea how she was going to get out of this one. "Who are you?" Cailan asks, and he doesn't _sound_ angry. "I'm, uh, Allison. Allison Gunn," she says, and then closes her eyes and berates herself. _Out of all the possible fake names in the entire universe that you could have chosen, you chose the fake name Shepard took? Goddess, that's so stupid_ , she thinks, and she almost misses Cailan's next remark. "You don't look like you're from here, Miss Gunn," he says, and she almost laughs. She swallows heavily, instead, and thinks about all the possible consequences that could arise from messing with someone in a position of power. "I'm not," she answers, and she is proud when her voice doesn't shake.   
  
He smiles at her, then, a kind smile. "What are you doing at Ostagar, then?" he asks, cocking his head to the side. Oh, Goddess, he's such a puppy, she thought, but she returned his smile with a nervous one of her own. "I was running from the darkspawn horde. I ran for a long way. I'm not even sure how I got here, to be honest. I thought, once I saw Ostagar, that I could find some safety, but I don't think that is the case," she says, and she hopes it is a convincing lie, and she a convincing actor. "What makes you think that you aren't safe here?" he asks, nudging her out of the way so an elven servant carrying an armful of boxes can pass. She glances at the servant guiltily, but she forces herself to focus on Cailan's question. "I'm a, uh, seer. I saw the outcome of the coming battle. I would be willing to discuss what I saw, but I would insist that it is done privately," she says, thinking fast. She'd never been too good at coming up with lies on the spot.   
  
"Very well, Miss Gunn. If you don't object, I'd like to send two of my personal guards with you. I have a meeting with Teryn Loghain that I am unable to miss, but I'm very interested in what you have to say," he says, and the relief Arya feels is almost overwhelming. "Of course. I, uh, would like to see a healer while I wait. And, uh, are you going to tell Loghain about me?" she asks, her voice small. "I didn't plan on telling him, no," Cailan answers, patting her shoulder. Her knees almost buckle, and she can only imagine how heavy the armor he's wearing is. "Okay. Thank you," she says, and Cailan calls in a couple of stone-faced guards. "Take Miss Gunn to a healer, and then take her back to my tent. Make sure she's comfortable," he instructs, and then they lead her away, deeper into the bustle of Ostagar. 


	2. a king among men

An hour later, when King Cailan returned Arya back to his tent, she had gotten a healer to take care of her headache, and had even eaten. The food hadn't been free, but one of the guards with her had talked the cooks into letting her eat without paying as a personal favor to the king. She had even had enough time to do her makeup, and she thought that this dream was awfully realistic considering she had to redo her eyeliner six times before she got it right thanks to the shaking of her hands. When Cailan returned to his tent, he dismissed the guards. They shared a look with each other before glaring at her. She picked up on it pretty quickly, actually, and scoffed. "Don't worry. He's safe with me. He could probably snap me in half. It'd be suicide to try anything and I don't actually want to die," she said, and only after an insistent gesture from Cailan did they turn and walk away. Cailan ushered her inside before entering himself, sitting down on the edge of the cot. She sat down gingerly on a rough-hewn stool, and found herself leaning forward, her elbows propped up on her legs. 

It was only after she sat down that she noticed how dark it was inside, and she acutely felt the lack of the guard's presence. Even though she'd expected a private audience with Cailan, she also expected him to keep at least one guard with him, just in case she tried anything. "Well, Miss Gunn, I suggest you start talking. Emergencies that need my attention tend to rise up quite often," he said, humor glittering in his eyes. She cleared her throat nervously, cracking a small smile despite her nerves. "Right, yeah, of course. Uh, this is probably going to sound really crazy, but I'm a seer. I've also traveled really far, as you can probably tell from my things. I could show you in detail what I have, and maybe that'd convince you, if you don't believe me," she says, speaking in a rush. She's not the best at talking to people. "I think I'd like that, Allison," he says, his voice warm and soft, and Arya thinks she could melt from it. She's always had a thing for voices. 

"Right, well, the first thing is my pack itself. It won't look like any other that's from around here," she says, nudging the aforementioned pack closer to him with her foot. He picks it up effortlessly, and she wrinkles her nose. She can barely lift it, and she's been carrying it for three years. He just picks up it up like it weighs nothing. "It is very strange. What are these?" he asks, sliding one finger delicately along a zipper. Arya could think of at least a dozen sinful uses for those fingers. She shook her head lightly, trying to keep her mind out of the gutter. "Those are called zippers. It's a sort of clasp that's more effiencent than buckles or buttons," she informs him, jiggling her leg subconsciously. She reaches forward and shows him how to use it, and his face lights up, the lines beside his eyes crinkling together. "That's genius! How common are they? How are they made?" he asks, and Arya gives him a slow and steady smile. "They're on a lot of things, and much more common than buckles. Probably even more common that buttons, but I'm not sure on that. I'm not sure how they're made, sadly. They are used on a variety of things, though. Packs, clothing, and some other things," she answers. 

"What sort of clothing utilizes this?" he asks, still absentmindedly fingering the zipper. Arya swallowed heavily and looked away from his hands. "Uh, things like this. It's a jacket; it goes on over an outfit and is meant to keep you warm. Like a cloak," she replies, untying her jacket from her waist and shrugging it on to demonstrate. For good measure, she even zipped it up, and he reached out to touch it. "The fabric isn't like anything here, either. Does it keep you warm?" he asks, looking up at her. Sometime during their conversation, she'd stood and shifted closer. She was, in fact, standing much closer than she probably should be. "I...for the most part, although that's because it never got really cold where I'm from," she answers. He tilts his head back, the dim light reflecting off the bright pale blue of his eyes. "I believe you, just so you know. If you want to show me more interesting this, by all means, don't let me stop you, but you don't have to prove anything to me," he says, and she grins. "I can prove more, later, if you listen to me," she says, and he scoots over to the side, letting her take a seat on the cot next to him. "Very well. Tell me, all-seeing seer," he says, nudging her playfully, and she chuckles. 

"This is, uh, pretty heavy stuff. You won't like it, and you probably won't want to believe me. I do have a few questions before I really begin, 'cause the future isn't set in stone. It can change. The big battle is tonight, yes?" she asks, forcing herself to speak slowly. "Yes, it is. It'll begin shortly before dusk, if all goes to plan," he answers. She drags the toe of her shoe through the dirt and chews on her lip. "What is the name of the recruit that Duncan brought a few days ago? I'm aware of Daveth, the thief, and Jory, the knight, but isn't there a third?" she asks, and she wonders how long she can go before she makes a mistake and reveals the truth about who she is and where she's from. "Yes. His name is Eldris Mahariel. He hails from a Dalish clan out of the Brecilian Forest," Cailan answers, and Arya smiles. The next part, she thinks, will be easy. She'd played the opening of the game a hundred times or more.   
  
"Tonight, before the battle, Eldris, Jory, and Daveth will go through a Warden ritual called the Joining. It's secret, but it's what makes them a true Grey Warden. In my vision, after the Joining, when Eldris woke, you requested a strategy meeting. At the end of the meeting, you decided to send Eldris and Alistair to ensure the signal is lit. However, when they get there, the tower is overrun with darkspawn, and when they get to the top of the tower, they are late. Loghain quits the field in order to save as many lives as he can. You...you do not survive. Neither does Warden-Commander Duncan. Actually, Eldris and Alistair are the only ones to survive, thanks to some...intervention from outside forces. This is why I came to warn you, and this is why I insisted on doing so in private. I did not want Loghain to accuse me of treason, especially considering that in my vision, he blamed the Wardens for your death," she says, and by the end she has picked one of her nails until a drop of bright red blood has welled up. She wipes it on her jeans.

It is silent for a long time before Cailan responds. "Loghain betrayed me? He left the field while we were still fighting?" Cailan asks, his voice soft. Arya reaches out, taking one of his hands in both of hers. His hands are rough and calloused, a soldier's hands, and her hands are so small compared to his. "I don't believe so. I believe he made the best tactical decision he could have made. If he had charged...everyone would have died. Ferelden would have been consumed by the Blight," she answers, glancing at him sympathetically. She'd never been good at comforting others. "That...makes sense. What happens, then, as a result of my death?" he asks, and he grips her hand tightly for a moment. She squeezes his hand gently before she answers. "Ferelden nobility was plunged into chaos. There were those who tried to take advantage of that, Arl Howe being among the foremost. It isn't until Eldris and Alistair, with Arl Eamon's help, call a Landsmeet that the situation is resolved, and even then there is unrest. It is...it would be better if you survived," she told him, and then she looks at the ground once more. 

"I would like your advice on how to proceed, then," Cailan says, and Arya looks up at him sharply. "Me? But I'm not a soldier or a strategist," she protests, and this time he squeezes her hand. "No, you aren't, but I believe you found your way here and gave me this information for a reason. I would like your advice," he says, firmly but gently, and she conceded, thinking carefully before answering. "Very well. What I would do in your situation is...well, probably the worst thing possible, but if I were you...I'd get out. Tonight, before the battle. Make up some excuse, leave, and go to Lothering. I can go with you if you'd prefer, but you should take a couple of guards with you. You should, however, have me speak to Eldris and Alistair. They can meet you in Lothering and you can decide from there what the best course of action would be," she says. She could talk to Duncan, too, but he was so close to his Calling that she doubted he'd go with her, if he even believed her. She realized with a start that all of this was a dream anyway, and almost laughed. It felt so real, though. "You think that this would truly be best?" Cailan asks, examining their twined hands. "I think so. Ferelden needs you. I know you want glory, and I understand that, but you must place your people before your desire for glory. So, what will it be? Will you take my advice?" she asks, and she, too, examines their clasped hands. 

There is a very pregnant pause before Cailan answers. "Yes, Allison, I will. This...this will not be easy for me, so I hope for both of our sakes that you're telling the truth. I would like it if you accompanied me when I left. Prior to leaving, I'll get you fitted for some armor, and we'll get you the heaviest set you can wear. I'll also gift you some daggers. You may lack the proper training, but instincts usually take over long enough to survive until someone can teach you. I'll have the two guards I sent with you earlier accompany us, and one of them can escort you to the Wardens' tent," he says, but he doesn't make a move to let go of her hand. She smiles and bites her bottom lip. "Thank you. But I have no money, and I can't afford to pay you back for the armor and weapons," she says. He shakes his head, a faint smile on his own face. "Nonsense. What's the point in having all this coin if I can't afford to gift someone some new armor occasionally? Besides, you can't travel with me in the clothes you're wearing," he points out. She smiles and squeezes his hand one final time before letting go and standing. 

"Brett told me that you didn't have any coin. I don't expect you to pay me back, but maybe eventually we can work out a way for you to earn some money of your own. It's never good to rely on the charity of others," he says, his tone gentle to take the sting out of his words. "Yeah, I know. I have money from back home, but that won't do me any good here. I have a few skills I can probably put to use earning something, but if not, don't worry about it," she says, and she almost tells him that she isn't his problem. His eyes are shining with concern, though, and she doesn't want to antagonize him. He had just promised to buy her a new set of armor, after all. He stands, brushing against her as he moves past her in the cramped, crowded space. She sucks in a deep breath, and then she is blinking against the sudden sunlight when he holds the tent flap open. "You first," he says, laughing. She rolls her eyes, and once they adjust she shoulders her backpack once more. 


	3. long live the reckless and the brave (i don't think i wanna be saved)

Ostagar was much larger than it was in game, Arya quickly realized. She couldn’t even see Duncan’s sequestered, separate campsite from where she stood outside Cailan’s tent, flanked by Brett and the other guard, Eliza. “Um, can one of you take me to the Grey Warden’s campsite?” she asked, her gaze nervously flickering between the two of them. “I can,” Eliza said, stepping forward. She shared a brief glance with Brett, who merely nodded before he looked away, ducking inside the tent to speak with Cailan. “Come on, then. The Grey Wardens have a camp mostly separate from everyone else’s. It’s quite a long walk, for it to be in the middle of camp,” she said, a kind smile on her face behind her helm. Arya returned the smile, and trailed after Eliza as the other woman led the way towards Duncan’s campsite.

“So, you’re telling us that you’re a seer, and you saw the coming battle fail through my eyes, and that we’re going to be saved miraculously by the witch we met in the Wilds earlier?” Eldris demanded. Arya shrank back away from him. Although he was slightly shorter than her, the deep red lines and the angry scowl on his face kind of intimidated her. “I’m also saying that you and Alistair both need to find King Cailan and myself in Lothering after this happened,” she reminded him helpfully. “Are you insulting my intelligence, shemlen?” the elf demanded, shaking the messy brown hair out of his eyes and crossing his arms.

“No! I’m not insulting anything about you! I’m telling you that I saw the future, and if you don’t do this then the world would burn,” she says back, mirroring his stance in her frustration. Eldris narrowed his eyes, stepping closer to her. “And just why should I care what happens to the humans?” he asked, his eyes glinting dangerously. Arya took a deep breath. She knew this was a touchy topic. Hell, the Dalish were her favorite part of any Dragon Age game. But, more importantly, she understood their anger. She just hoped that’d be enough.

“I wouldn’t, if I were in your position. The only thing the humans have ever done for the elves was take their homeland and force them into something barely better than slavery. But you aren’t just Dalish, now. You are a Grey Warden, and you have a duty to save the world from the Blight. By all means, go and burn the shemlen cities afterwards. I’ll even help. But standing aside and letting the Blight consume the world would put the Dalish in danger. You can only run for so long before it catches up to you,” she said, her hands moving to her sides as she met his eyes steadily. Her heart fluttered in her chest, but she was proud when her voice hadn’t shook.

“You…have a point, which is surprising for a shemlen like you. Very well. I believe you, regardless of whether Alistair does,” he conceded, and Arya deflated, letting out a heavy sigh. _Oh, thank the gods above,_ she thought, as she turned to the blonde man standing next to Eldris. “What do you think, Alistair?” she asked, her voice soft. He’d always held a soft spot in her heart. He’d been her favorite pretty much from the first time she played the game, and seeing him standing in front of her was…nice. _Even if it is only a dream,_ she thought. It had to be a dream.

“If my…companion believes you, I do. Are you going to tell Duncan?” he asks, and Arya remembers the awful way Duncan had died. She also remembered how close he was to his Calling. “I will talk to him, yes. Whatever he decides to do is up to him, though,” she says, carefully, pushing her hair out of her face. “Of course. We’ll be sure to meet you in Lothering,” he replies, cheerfully, grasping her hand in his and giving her a firm handshake. Arya smiles at them both, before turning and wandering away, searching for Duncan, Eliza trailing behind her.

* * *

 

She finds him a few minutes later, speaking to a pretty elven servant. The girl sees Arya approaching and bows, backing away. Duncan turns to her, his dark eyes flicking up and down her. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says, his tone cautiously polite. “We haven’t, ser. My name is Allison Gunn. Are you Warden-Commander Duncan?” she asks, clasping her hands behind her back. “I am. What do you want with me, Miss Gunn?” he replies. She gives him a small, polite smile. “Could we go somewhere more private to talk? I have some information for you that might be upsetting, and it is, at the very least, sensitive,” she says. He pauses, considering for a moment. “Very well. Follow me to my tent,” he said, turning on his heel and walking off, giving her no time to respond. She could have cried at the thought of walking much farther, but thankfully his tent was relatively close. And, surprisingly, he had two stools in there. She seated herself on the one closest to the exit, her backpack on the ground by her feet.

“Well? What is this information?” he asks. It was almost demanding, but not quite. She shifted nervously. “You might not believe me, at first. It’s a lot to swallow. I’m a seer, and I’ve traveled very far. A few weeks ago, I had a vision of the battle that takes place tonight. I saw it through Eldris’s eyes, so perhaps my perception was a bit biased, but the battle fails. Cailan dies on the battlefield, along with you, and Loghain calls a retreat because the signal was lit late. Ferelden is launched into political unrest, and Eldris and Alistair have to save the world from the Blight despite their inexperience. It is…not pretty,” she explains, watching Duncan’s face carefully.

“I’ve seen visions similar. It comes from being a Warden,” he replies, and his voice is more guarded than ever. “I know you are close to your calling. I’ve already spoken to King Cailan, and Alistair and Eldris. Cailan is leaving before the battle, and I’m joining him. Eldris and Alistair will meet up with us in Lothering. Your fate, however, should be your choice,” she says, gently, and Duncan graces her with a smile. “Thank you. I think, even knowing how this will end, that I will stay and fight,” he says, and Arya feels her chest constrict with sadness. “That is an…honorable decision, Duncan. I do suggest speaking to Alistair and Eldris prior to the battle, if your decision is truly made,” she replies, and Duncan reaches out and squeezes her hand, giving her a small, sad smile. After a moment, she turns and leaves the tent. Eliza leads her through the camp once more, to the quartermaster and Cailan. The day feels heavier than it did before.

* * *

 

“Hail! Did you speak with them?” Cailan asks as she approaches, and his smile is nearly as bright as the glint of his armor. “I did,” she said, once she got closer, “and they believe me. I talked to Duncan as well, let him know,” she said, and maybe it is something in the tone of her voice that gives her away. “And what did Duncan say?” Cailan asked. She frowned, dragging a hand through her hair. “He wants to stay and participate in the battle,” she says. Cailan takes a deep breath, processing the information. “Oh,” is all he says, and then they stand there in silence for a few minutes.

“Well, we should probably get you fitted for that armor, now,” he says, turning to her suddenly. She smiles up at him, hoping some of the heaviness in the air would dissipate. “Yes, we should. I’ve always wanted some armor. Although, that was for nerd reasons instead of survival reasons,” she says. She leaves her pack with Eliza, and Cailan takes her hand, pulling her gently over to the quartermaster. After a long conversation full of technical armor terms that Arya doesn’t know, she’s been stripped down to her underthings in the middle of camp.

“Are you sure there’s nowhere else we could do this?” she complains, glaring at Cailan as the quartermaster moves around her, measuring and prodding and clucking as he examines her. “Nope,” he answers with a cheeky grin, and he makes a show of looking up and down her body. She sticks her tongue out at him and he laughs, a clear and bright sound. The quartermaster shakes his head, mumbling to himself before straightening up. “We’ve got three full kits that could work for her. Two of them are plain leather, although the first is a lot rougher than the second. The second’s a third tier set of armor, despite the fact that it’s missing a helmet. The third is a set of studded leather armor. The second’s probably the best quality,” he says, speaking quickly. “I probably won’t wear a helmet. If the second one is best, then maybe we should go with that one?” Arya suggests, crossing her arms over her breasts. “You need a helmet. But we can take the helmet from the third suit and substitute it,” Cailan said. Arya frowned, remembering how uncomfortable the leather helmets looked.

She didn’t get much say, however. The quartermaster handed her the armor and walked off, leaving her feeling frustratingly overwhelmed. She didn’t even know where to start, and, to her horror, she felt tears welling up in her eyes. It was a simple thing, really, but she was so lost. “Don’t you know how to put armor on?” Cailan asked, his hand on her shoulder. She shook her head mutely, blinking back the tears before the first had begun to fall. She sniffed, then looked up at him. “That’s okay. I can tell you’ve never worn it before. I’ll show you how to put it on until you get it,” he murmured, reaching down and picking up the first piece.

It turned out, despite the excessive amount of armor pieces, it wasn’t that difficult to put on. There were just way too many buckles for Arya to begin to make sense of. Cailan’s fingers are deft and quick, though, making short work of them, and it took a surprisingly short amount of time for Arya get armored up. “And now for the finishing touch,” Cailan says, sliding daggers into the sheaths at her waist with a flourish. She grins, running her fingers along the smooth leather of her helmet. “It’s heavier than I thought it would be,” she says, finally, and Cailan only smiles, linking his arm through hers and leading her back through the camp. Eliza had long since stocked up on supplies for the journey, returning to Cailan’s tent with the provisions and Arya’s backpack.

“Have you eaten?” Cailan asks, stopping short in front of the mess hall. “Yeah, earlier when I saw the healer,” she answers. “You need more food than that. C’mon, I’ll eat with you,” he says, and his hand is still warm in hers so she follows. She’s not even all that hungry, really, but she knows she will be later, so she suffers through the line with him.

“You know, I don’t even like this stew. It’s too…bland,” she complains, sitting across from him. “Hey, this is fine Ferelden cuisine right here,” he says, a glimmer in his eyes letting her know he’s teasing. “I could do better. And I can’t even boil water without setting it on fire,” she retorts, and Cailan’s foot nudges hers underneath the table. “It isn’t that bad,” he tells her. She shakes her head slightly, a small smile quirking the corner of her mouth up. “Agree to disagree?” she asked, her eyes wide and innocent. He snorts, nods, and shovels another bite into his mouth.

* * *

 

By the time they finished eating and returned to Cailan’s tent, it is dusk. “I’ve got a meeting with Loghain, Duncan, and Eldris, which you already knew about. I’m going to go to that, and then we’ll leave,” he promises. She shifts on one foot, biting her lip as she looks up at him. “Are you going to mention the fact that you’re leaving?” she asks. He shakes his head. “No, I’m not. Duncan already knows, of course, as does Eldris, but Loghain…I can’t help but think it would be best for him to remain in the dark. If all goes according to your vision, then we’ll find Loghain afterwards and figure out where to go from there. If it doesn’t, well…” he says, trailing off uncertainly at the end. “We’ll cross that bridge when she get to it,” she concluded, a faint smile on her face. “Exactly. Anyway, I’ll be back shortly. Eliza and Brett will accompany us when we leave, so you can get to know them now if it would make you more comfortable,” Cailan said turning to go. Arya watched him leave, her eyes following the shine of his armor.

As she waited, Arya discovered that Ferelden nights got cold. She curled up on herself, shivering. She didn’t want to put her jacket on because the red of the fabric would draw attention to her, but she wasn’t fond of sitting there and freezing either. In the end, she did neither, because Cailan returned before she made a decision. “Cold?” he asks, humor in his voice. “A little. I’m fine, though,” she said, her teeth clattering together. “You are a terrible liar,” he says, ducking inside. He comes back out a moment later and drapes a cloak over her shoulders, tying it off. She stands still as he does so, a faint smile on her face. She draws it closer to her, flapping it around her a few times and grinning. She felt like a kid on Christmas morning. Cailan stepped back into his tent to change into a set of Templar armor, and when he came out once more, Arya didn’t even recognize him. Which was the point, really.

She found herself clinging to Cailan’s arm as they entered the Korcari Wilds. Almost immediately away from the camp, the paths were overgrown and there were roots and braches just lying in wait to trip her. Which they did, many times, and if it weren’t for Cailan she’d have faceplanted on the ground and refused to get back up. So, really, it was very fortunate that Cailan was there.  She knew they’d have moved a lot faster without her, and she knew when they set up camp it was because of her, but she was too tired and too cold and too achy already to complain. She curled up on a bedroll beside the fire, Cailan laid down on the opposite side of the fire, and she was asleep almost before her head had hit the pillow.


	4. a world of difference

_She was on a hospital bed, the air cool and sharp with the scent of antiseptic. “I can’t get a pulse,” a man said, his voice rushed and panicked. His hands compressed her chest, his mouth coming towards hers and forcing air into her lungs. She wanted to cough and splutter and hit him, or at the very least make some sign that this wasn’t necessary. She was fine! The man gave up a few moments later, stepping back. The others swarmed around her, putting the shock pads on her body. Her head was spinning; they were moving too fast, and she couldn’t quite feel what was happening. Everything was murky, hard to see and harder to feel and Arya wanted to scream. The only thing she was sure of was how desperately afraid she was._

_Her body arched off the bed with the electric pulse, and then Arya was standing in the corner of the hospital room, watching. Her body was on the bed, deathly still and surrounded by nurses still trying to start her heart, to get a pulse, to make her breathe. They can’t keep going forever, though, and they admit defeat, stepping back with sagging shoulders. “Subject declared dead at 2:16p.m, Wednesday, October 15 th,” a woman says, and Arya lets out a sob before she can stop herself. The scene contracts and spins away, and she is somewhere else._

_She is still in the hospital, but this time she is in a waiting room. Her mother is there, and her stepfather, and even Ella. The same man from before is there, and Arya thinks that perhaps he is the doctor. “If you would come with me, we can discuss this,” he says, and his voice is soft and sad and Arya is crying before she fully realizes it, reaching up to wipe away the tears. Ella’s eyes look wide and scared and her mother has been crying softly, tears streaking down her face. Her father is trying valiantly not to cry, and it isn’t working. She couldn’t recall seeing her father cry before, and another sob falls out of her chest. She drifts behind them as they follow the doctor, unsure of what else to do._

_They sit in chairs in what she assumes to be a private consultation room. Ella stays standing, her hip and shoulder leaning against the wall. The pose is so familiar to Arya that it aches. “The circumstances are very unusual,” the man begins, and his voice is still so soft and so sad. Arya thinks that, later, her mother will get angry about how patronizing his tone is. “How so?” Ella asks, and Arya isn’t surprised that the question comes from her friend and not from her parents. “Her heart just stopped. You were there when it happened. There was no warning, no anything. An autopsy might reveal something later, but I doubt that it will. Maybe if we’d gotten there sooner, we could’ve revived her, but even that’s doubtful. Her heart just quit,” he says, and Arya is crying harder now. “So there was nothing you could have done, at all?” Ella demands, and it’s so like her to get angry at the people who couldn’t bring her back. “No. We tried everything. I’m sorry for your loss,” the man says, and then Arya wakes up._

                She is back in camp in the Korcari Wilds, and her body is shaking with sobs. She sits up halfway, curling in on herself, and then Cailan is there, lifting her into his lap and cradling her against his chest. She shudders, burying her face in his shirt, and she sobs even harder. He sits there, rocking her gently and stroking her hair, mumbling soft words. Either it works eventually, or she’s ran out of tears to sob because she removes her face from his shirt and scrubs at it with the corner of the blanket that’s still wrapped around her shoulder.

                “What’s wrong, Allison?” he asks, and Arya shakes her head vehemently. “No. No, that’s not my name, and this is real. I thought it was a dream but it’s not, and I’m dead,” she says, and Cailan’s brow furrows, but he says nothing. She gulps in a deep breath of air, steadying herself, and then she starts to talk.

                “I told you I’d traveled from a long way away, and I guess I did. I’m from a different world, completely and totally. The last thing I remember is sitting in school, listening to the teacher. I thought I’d fallen asleep, but I…died, instead. I don’t know why dying there made me wake up here, but I thought it was a dream. I gave you a name that wasn’t mine because I don’t really like my name and I probably shouldn’t have but I didn’t think this was real,” she says, twisting the ring on her finger. “What is your name?” he asks, his voice steady and clear and not at all angry like she’d thought it would be. “Arya Huskins,” she answers. Cailan takes a deep breath, dragging a hand through his hair.

                “I believe you. It explains a lot about you. It’s an odd story, certainly, and the why and how doesn’t make sense, but I believe you,” he said, and the relief that Arya feels is almost crushing. She curls up against him again, resting her head against his chest. She feels tired and drained, and she is content for a moment to lay against him as he stroked her arm absentmindedly.

“Are you okay? It must be incredibly jarring to wake up in a world that is not your own,” he asks, his voice soft and soothing despite the question he was asking. Arya sighs, shifting so she sits more comfortably on his lap. “It is…I don’t know. I don’t know how to deal with this. I’m probably not going to for a long time. I’ve, ah, never been good with this touchy-feely stuff,” she answered. Her head was already starting to ache from her crying session, which was why she almost never cried. “Well, when you’re ready for the touchy-feely stuff, I’m here,” Cailan says, and the thought comforts Arya a lot more than she thought it would.

“It’s almost dawn. Should we wait until day breaks, or head out now?” she asks, after a few minutes in silence. She doubted she could have fallen asleep again. She was too afraid of nightmares to risk it. “We can head out now,” Cailan murmured, and a few minutes later the camp had been packed up and Brett was leading them deeper into the Korcari Wilds.


	5. do you believe in magic?

There was an ominous feeling in the pit of Arya’s stomach as they walked. She didn’t pay much attention to it, however, chalking it up to run-of-the-mill anxiety. She’d just found out she was dead; it was probably normal to freak out a little about it. Cailan must have sensed something off with her, or maybe he was concerned about her emotional state because he walked far closer to her than was strictly necessary, occasionally reaching out a steadying hand. She appreciated the gesture.

It was almost noon, judging by the sun’s position in the sky, when they were attacked. It was a group of bandits, jumping out of the surrounding trees and circling them. Cailan pushed Arya behind him, and she was grateful that he’d worn his helmet. Had he been recognized, the situation would have been much more precarious. “What do we have here? One of them tin-tops escorting a mage?” the leader asked, leering at her, and a shudder went down Arya’s spine. The man was disgusting, and Arya had had plenty of unfortunate experience with disgusting men. Then her concept of fear seemed to vanish completely, and her inner smart-ass took over.

“So what if I am a mage? Mages fry assholes like you on a regular basis,” she snarks, and Cailan’s elbow shoots backwards but misses. “Ooh, I’ve never had me a mage. I think it’d be fun. I could cut off your hands to keep you from casting those nasty spells and then I could have my wicked, wicked way with you and no one would be none the wiser,” the bandit said, showing his teeth. Or, well, what was left of them, anyway. “Aw, how cute. You don’t know anything about magic at all, do you? A mage doesn’t need her hands to obliterate you,” Arya responded, a thin-lipped smile on her face.

She’s not certain who made the first move, only that a few heartbeats later there was an explosion of movement around her. She watched partly in awe, partly in disgust, and partly in fear that came swarming back to her as Cailan, Brett, and Eliza engaged the bandits in a whirl of steel and blood. She could handle gore and blood and death in the movies, but it was different when it was right in front of her. The smell was almost overwhelming, and when she was sprayed with a moderate amount of blood, she started backing up. That was when her back hit something very solid, very warm, and very human-like. She let out a blood curdling screech, whirling around and throwing her hands out to protect from whatever was about to come.

Something unfamiliar and new bubbles up within her, rushing to the surface, and with a gasp there is fire pouring out of her hands, hot and bright and intense. She jerks away, clenching her hands to make it stop as the man falls to the ground, screaming in agony. She gags, the stench of burning flesh filling the air, and she makes the mistake of looking at him. His face is melting off, literally, as he thrashes and screams, and she manages to turn away before she falls to her knees, gagging and shaking her head and trying valiantly to not throw up. Steel slashes through the air, and then it is blessedly silent aside from Arya’s gagging.

Cailan is beside her almost instantly, dropping his sword into the dirt as one hand sweeps her hair out of her face and the other rubs her back gently. “Arya, are you all right?” he asks, and she wants to laugh. She’s on her hands and knees in the dirt gagging, does she look all right? But she doesn’t. She takes deep gasping breaths and gets herself back under control, sitting back on her haunches and giving him a weak smile. “I’m fine. It was just…overwhelming. I’ve never killed anyone before, and certainly not with fire,” she answers, and she’s grateful for the hair-tie around her wrist as she pulls her hair back into a ponytail.

“You didn’t tell me you were a mage. Are there any other secrets you’d like to tell me?” Cailan asks, and his tone is only slightly accusatory. “I’d have been upfront about being a mage if I had known about it. Real magic, the kind of magic you’re used to, doesn’t exist in my world. This must be some new addition that happened after my death,” she answers, and she wants to get angry, for a moment. She’d died, and here he was, accusing her of lying. Sure, she hadn’t told him her name immediately, but she’d never have kept something like being a mage secret. The urge passes before she can even really consider getting angry, and suddenly she feels acutely tired. “Well, as King, I hate to do this,” Cailan begins, but she cuts him off, jumping to her feet with a snarl.

“You will not take me to a Circle. I know how they operate and I will die before I let Templars take me,” she says, her voice hard and angry, but she is careful to keep her fists clenched. Cailan raises his hands in a placating gesture. “I wasn’t going to suggest it, Arya. I was going to say that as King, I hate to blatantly disregard Ferelden’s laws. I won’t let them take you. Maybe it’d be different if you were from here, but you’re not. You said it yourself, you don’t have magic in your world. You just found out you’re dead back home, and you’re surrounded by unfamiliar places and things. I’d hate to see what giving you to a Circle would do to you,” he says, gently, and Arya deflates.

“I’m sorry that I just started accusing you. I just…I know how a lot of people feel about mages, especially here, and I shouldn’t have automatically assumed that you shared those beliefs, especially when you’ve been so kind already,” she says, sighing, running her fingers through her hair. It’s sticky with blood in some places, and when she pulls her hand away, her face conveys her revulsion. “Right, I think you need a bath,” Cailan says, and there’s laughter in his voice. “You need one worse than I do. You’re covered in blood. None of it is yours, is it?” she asks, suddenly worried as she shifts closer to him, her hands unclenching. “No, it’s not mine. At least, I don’t think it is. I’ll let you personally look me over when we set up camp, though. The maps show a river near here, we’ll head that way and make camp early,” he answers, and she nods, satisfied with the answer for now. Brett and Eliza join them, having just finished checking to make sure all the bandits were dead and taking their coin and some of their more valuable items. They’d need the money before the Blight was over, especially with Cailan unable to access his royal funds for awhile. They’d piled the bodies up in a clear spot, and they look at Arya expectantly. It takes her a moment to realize they want her to light the pyre. She tries, making a good effort, but the feeling just won’t come back. She can feel it, bubbling underneath the surface, but no matter how hard she tries, she can’t call it to her. She shakes her head in disappointment, and Eliza steps forward, fiddling with flint and steel for a moment before the sparks catch and the pyre bursts into flame.

They reach the river in good time, and there is, fortunately, a natural cove with water deep enough to bathe in right beside the camp. This grants them the privacy they desire. Cailan and Brett go first, while Arya and Eliza take the time to set up the camp and start preparing supper. It’s a quick, mostly tasteless stew, flavored with elfroot and nothing else, but it’s better than no food at all, and after the chill of the water, Arya thinks she’ll be very thankful for the stew. When both of them return, Arya gathers her change of clothes and heads to the river. Eliza had, miraculously, managed to avoid getting blood on her, so she opted out of the bath. Arya wasn’t going to complain, she’d be more comfortable by herself.

It took her awhile to unfasten all the buckles and belts on her armor, but she finally shed it, leaving it lying neatly on the ground as she stepped into the water. Cailan had told her it would be a little cold, but when she surfaced, shivering violently, she thought she might kick him when she got back to camp. The water was freezing, and her nipples were probably hard enough to cut glass because of it. She took a while to clean herself, not because she was a masochist and enjoyed the biting cold, but because she was shivering so hard the simple task of rinsing her hair took much longer than it should. When she finally clambered out of the water, shaking, she toweled off hurriedly and dressed even faster. Her fingers and toes were so cold they were almost completely numb, and it took her a couple tries to get all her armor gathered in her arms. She walked back to the camp and dumped them on the ground before curling up next to the fire.

“Cold?” Cailan asked, an amused grin on his face. “Nah, I’m warm. That’s why I’m skin’s turning blue,” she ground out, and he laughed, a clear and bright sound and Arya found herself smiling despite the cold. “Come over here,” he said, and she regarded him suspiciously. “Why?” she asks, her hands drifting closer to the fire. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to set herself on fire. “Because you’re cold. I’m warm, and I have plenty of body heat to share. Plus blankets,” he said, and she conceded, clambering clumsily over to him and curling up in his lap. He wrapped a couple of blankets around them both, and after a few moments Arya realized he felt like a furnace. A magnificent furnace that wouldn’t burn her. “I think you’re my new favorite person in all of ever,” she said, and he chuckled, brushing her hair off of her shoulder.

“Tell me about your world,” he says after a few minutes of watching the crackling flames. “What do you want to know about it?” she asks, looking up at him. Some distant part of her thinks that maybe it’s inappropriate for her to be in his lap so much lately, but the part of her that’s still cold and still anxious and still ready to cry because she’s dead and she killed a man earlier gives zero fucks. “You said there wasn’t any magic in your world. Does that also mean there’s no Chantry?” he asks. She thinks for a moment on how best to answer his question. There wasn’t a Chantry, or its equivalent, back in the United States, but religion still played a huge part in what was accepted and what wasn’t. “Well, no, not exactly. There’s no official group or anything like the Chantry, but religion still plays a big part in our social norms. The major religion that people always cite is Christianity. It’s very similar to the religion that most people in Ferelden follow. There’s one all-powerful God, and to be honest, I never really paid attention in Sunday school. I can’t give you the fine details of it because I didn’t believe in it myself,” she answers. She barely notices whenever he winds a strand of her hair absentmindedly around his finger. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, thinking and considering. “Is it better there than it is here?” he asks.

“That’s up for debate. There’s a lot of things here that are probably better than the way it is back home, but there’s a lot of stuff back home that you don’t have here. Like, back home we have a ton of machines to make life easier. At the same time, our governments are different. Yours seems to be doing better from everything that I know, but you’re also in another time period with a different government type entirely. So, really, that’s an academic issue,” she responds. She’s a lot warmer now than she was before. They talk well into the night, about government and politics and the machines that Arya mentioned. When they do finally go to sleep, Arya is pressed against his side and his arm is still around her waist, keeping her close to him.

_She dreams of Leliana that night. They are standing together on a cliff, with the Blighted lands stretching out before them. “We can stop this,” Leliana says, her gaze steady and hopeful and Arya laces her fingers through hers. “It won’t be easy,” Arya says, the wind whipping her hair around her face. Leliana’s grin is vicious, something a predator might wear. “The best things never are,” she answers, and then they jump, falling through the darkness. They both brace for an impact that never comes._

Arya wakes up abruptly, jerking as she opens her eyes. It is still late, several hours until sunrise, although the fire has died down considerably. She can see the outline of Brett’s back at the edge of camp, keeping watch. Someone has draped another blanket over them both, and as she settles herself more comfortably against Cailan, her back pressing into the cold, hard ground, she thinks that perhaps she could make this place home.


	6. no shit, sherlock (fuck you, watson)

Arya had, of course, warned Cailan and the two guards about the bandits outside of Lothering, but when they arrived on the bridge, it was empty save for them. Cailan reached out, laying a hand gently on her shoulder, while the other strayed towards the hilt of his sword. “Arya?” he asked, and she bit her lip, puzzled. “I’ve got two theories, and maybe they’re both wrong, but it’s all I’ve got,” she says, finally and Eliza smiles at her. “Let’s hear it, then,” she says, sounding faintly amused, and Arya shoots her a glance. “The first one is that those assholes who attacked us a few days ago were the bandits who were supposed to be here. We weren’t that far from Lothering, so it makes sense, and they can’t be here if they’re dead. The second theory is that we’re too early. It’s several days before the events of my vision,” she explains, running a hand through her hair. She realizes pretty quickly what a bad idea that was. Her hair’s tangled and messy from days of travel without a proper bath and a brush.

            “Regardless of why the bandits aren’t here, they aren’t, and we should make our way on into Lothering,” Brett says, shifting uneasily. The others agree, and Eliza cautiously leads the way into the village. Refugees had begun to trickle in, but there were few compared to how many there would eventually be. Brett was sent to the market to restock their provisions, and Eliza (along with all of their gear) was sent to the inn, to get two rooms. That left Cailan and Arya alone, and they decided the best course of action was to head towards the Chantry.

            Despite Lothering being a small village, it was quite crowded. Arya clung to Cailan’s side, both of her arms wrapped around one of his. “Don’t like crowds?” he asked, his breath tickling her ear and sending a shiver down her spine. She shook her head wordlessly, and he smiled, extracting his arm from her grip to throw it around her shoulders and tuck him against his side. They’d taken time last night to cut Cailan’s hair, and with the aid of some makeup, Arya hoped no one would notice him. He was still in Templar armor, so it was unlikely that they would, but still, she worried.

            Outside the Chantry’s gate, there were two Templars. There wasn’t any sign of the screaming man from the game, either, and overall there was still an optimistic feeling in the air. News of Ostagar must not have reached this far, not yet. Arya stands up on her tiptoes, tapping Cailan’s shoulder to get his attention. “Ask for Sister Leliana,” she whispers. He glances at her, raising an eyebrow. “Can’t you?” he asks. It’s an innocent question, but Arya locks up. She’s never been good at talking to people. She shakes her head vehemently, in response, and he gives her a quizzical glance but he squeezes her shoulder gently and guides her over to one of the Templars. “Excuse me, sers, is there a Sister Leliana in the Chantry?” he asks.

            “Aye, she’s in there. She’s either praying or preaching. If she’s praying, don’t interrupt, but if she’s preaching or doing anything else, feel free to approach her. She’s very friendly, always willing to talk,” the Templar answers, giving Cailan a nod of respect. Cailan returns the gesture and thanks the man before heading inside. “You know, I never thought I’d enter a church willingly. Or without bursting into flames, at the very least,” she murmurs, just loud enough for Cailan to hear. He chuckles, but otherwise doesn’t respond, instead focusing on navigating the center isle without bumping into people. It seems that most of Lothering’s population is in the Chantry.

            Leliana is standing at the front of the isle, talking to another sister. They wait politely until the conversation is over, and the other sister has walked away before Arya ducks out from underneath Cailan’s arm and approaches the red-head before she can change her mind. “Sister Leliana?” she asks, and she’s proud of herself when her voice doesn’t shake. “Yes. How can I help- wait a moment. I know you! I dreamed of you!” Leliana says, and Arya is desperately relieved. “And I of you,” she replies, a grin on her face. She isn’t as nervous as she feared she would be, although she still feels shaky inside. “The Maker must have brought us together. Surely this is divine providence,” Leliana says, a brilliant smile on her face. “Uh, sure. Yeah, he must have. Listen, is there any way we can go somewhere more private and talk? I’ve got a lot of things to tell you,” Arya says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I have my duties here to tend to, but I can come see you after supper. Will you be staying at the inn?” she asks. Arya nods. “Yes, I will. My name is Arya, by the way. I guess I’ll see you later,” she says. Leliana pulls her in for a quick hug, which surprises her. She hugs her back, though, and then Leliana walks off to do whatever it is that Leliana needed to do.

            Eliza had succeeded in securing two rooms. “Could you, uh, wait downstairs until supper?” Arya asks. The guardswoman waggles her eyebrows, and Arya is left spluttering as Cailan drags her up the stairs, laughing. “You’re both awful!” she protests, but she’s got a grin on her face too, despite the pinkness of her cheeks. When he released her arm on the landing, she crossed them over her chest and pouted. He laughed harder, pushing open the door, but all playfulness dispersed when Arya saw the bed. “Oh, fuck yes,” she says, and she takes a running jump, landing face down on it. She sprawled across it, and it was the best sensation she’d ever experienced. “This bed is probably the actual best,” she says, lifting her head up slightly. “Yeah, well, move over and make room for me,” Cailan says, and she hears his armor hitting the floor. She rolls to the side, realizing that she probably should have removed her armor first. With a longsuffering sigh, she stands, and she goes about unclasping and unbuckling and unstrapping it until it all lands in an ungraceful pile on the floor and she’s left in her underthings. She lays back down, stretching out as Cailan settles in beside her.

            “Did you need to tell me something, or did you have another reason for dragging me up here alone?” Cailan asks. She pauses, thinking for a moment. She’d almost forgotten what she wanted to talk to him about. “Oh! Yes, of course. We should look into taking jobs from the Chanter’s Board. There’s probably other work, too. It would, however, be a good idea to stockpile all the money we can. You probably won’t have access to the royal treasury or whatever for awhile yet,” she says. He snorts, turning over onto his side. “What is it with you and money?” he asks. She turns over, too, facing him. “Well, see, I know from personal experience what it’s like to be broke. Besides, more money is always better than less money. Except when it comes to debt, but fuck that. I mean, I have some dollar bills in my wallets. Some pennies, too, and maybe even quarters. But I don’t have any of your currency,” she says.

            “I’d like to see your currency,” he says. She rolls onto her back again, dramatically this time. “Oh, fuck you. I don’t even know what Eliza did with any of my things,” she says. A smirk turns the corners of Cailan’s lips upwards. “Well, if you’re offering…” he says, and Arya hits him with the pillow before sliding off the bed. Her pack, it turns out, is piled with the others neatly in the corner. She grabs her wallet out of it before seemingly noticing how naked she is. “Hey, do you have any spare shirts with you?” she asks, looking over at him. “Yeah, they’re in my pack. Why?” he replies. “Can I borrow one? I mean, I know I’ll have to wear proper clothes when we go back downstairs, but that’s later,” she answers. He nods, giving her permission, so she rifles through his bag until she finds an over-sized shirt. It hangs down well past mid-thigh once she gets it on.

            She rejoins him on the bed, opening her wallet, and then she explains roughly how their currency works. He nods, looking interested, and then Arya has an idea. They have a couple hours until it’s time for them to go to supper, anyway. She’s got the time to kill. “You remember how I mentioned all those machines we have where, right? I’ve got one with me that I can show you. It’ll seem like magic, at first, but it’s not,” she says, already bouncing up off of the bed. “I’d love that. What does this machine do?” he asks, his eyes following her as she walks across the room. “It does a lot of things. It can take pictures, which are like instant portraits, and it can play music. I’ve also got movies on mine, which are likes plays but also not like plays at all. I’ll show you one of those first,” she says, pulling her computer out of her bag again. It’s almost fully charged, and she’s kind of glad she’s so neurotic about keeping it that way. She also notices that she’s got a Wi-Fi signal, and she gets another idea.

            He honestly doesn’t quite know how to feel about the computer, but Arya curls up against his side and puts it in his lap and goes to Netflix. The internet connection is, apparently, really good, and she’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Okay, this is a show called Sherlock. It should give you a pretty good indication as to what sort of machines that we’ve got back home. The episodes for this are a lot longer than usual, but if you need me to stop and explain what’s going on, I can do that,” she says, curling up against his side and pressing play.

            At the end of the experience, she’s impressed. He’d kept up with the storyline quite well, really, and he’d only asked for explanations on a few of the jokes and references. He was also doing remarkably well with the introduction of new technology. “That was very interesting. Is there more of it?” he asked. She smiled up at him, closing the computer and putting it on the nightstand next to the bed. “Yes, there is, but we don’t have time to watch anymore right now. Maybe we can watch another episode before bed,” she says, stretching and getting off the bed. She had to put on proper clothes now. “I’d like that. We could bunk together; save Eliza and Brett the hassle of dealing with it,” he said. Arya didn’t think that was appropriate, but, then, she was standing the middle of the room in her underwear while he looked at her, so she wasn’t one to say what was and was not appropriate. Besides, after the first nightmare she’d had, they slept pretty close together anyway. “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” she concedes, pulling on a pair of jeans. About twenty minutes later, they head downstairs.


	7. the kids in the dark

            They ate a quick meal, a tasteless stew that Arya started to wrinkle her nose at. Her stomach, however, growled and Cailan reminded her that the stew was her only option until breakfast tomorrow. She made a big show out of sighing and eating it, bemoaning the lack of spices and the lack of foods from home. “You know, one day you’re going to have to show me some food from your world. Maybe once we get to Redcliffe and have proper supplies,” he says, and Arya’s eyes light up. “I could show you what pizza’s like! It’d be a poor imitation because I’m not the best cook in the world, but it’s better than nothing. A lot better than nothing, actually,” she says, and she wishes she were in Redcliffe already, despite the walking corpses they’d encounter. Pizza was well worth dealing with the undead, in her opinion.

            Leliana arrived not long after they’d finished eating. Eliza had just offered Arya a pint of ale, and while Arya was curious about it for novelty’s sake, something still felt undeniably wrong about drinking when she wasn’t old enough. “Good old America,” she sighed, following Leliana into a private room after thanking Eliza for the offer but declining politely. They sit at the table, Leliana gesturing for Arya to make herself comfortable. “I get the feeling that this is going to be a long chat, no?” she says, and Arya flashes her a smile as she leans back, crossing her legs in her lap.

            Once they are settled, it’s time for one of the hardest conversation’s Arya has ever had. She’s pretty sure that Leliana will think she’s bat-shit crazy, and that’s if the red-head even hears her out. “So, you are a seer?” Leliana asks, prompting her. “Of a sort. My real name is Arya Huskins. I come from a different world entirely. I’m not sure what pulled me through, but I died there, and woke up here, so I’m making the most of it. I’ve seen…visions of this world and how it operates, and I have personal information about you that I’ve gathered from my visions to use as proof,” she says, leaning forward and propping her elbows up on the table. Leliana’s eyes narrow, and Arya can almost see the gears turning in her mind as she thinks.

            “You realize this sounds absurd, no?” Leliana says, her voice steely, and Arya is seeing less of the Chantry sister and more of the Orlesian bard. “Most would say the same of the visions you’ve had,” Arya counters, a slight smirk creeping onto her face. “True. Very well, I’d like to hear this proof you’ve got,” the bard says, and Arya sits straighter in her seat. “Your mother died when you were young. The only thing that you remember about her is her scent- a flower native to Ferelden called Andraste’s Grace. An Orlesian noblewoman by the name of Lady Cecile raised you. Your mentor in the Game was a woman by the name of Marjolaine. Eventually, you found out that Marjolaine was committing treason and you tried to talk to her about the documents you found. Later, the guards arrested you for the same act Marjolaine had committed because she’d altered the documents to frame you. You eventually found your way to Ferelden, and to Lothering’s Chantry. Is there anything else?” she says, and Leliana shakes her head in amusement.

            “You do know things about me that no one else would, and I trust you. After all, the Maker must have brought us together for a reason, if we shared that dream. I suspect there’s a larger plan in the works, though,” she says, finally, and Arya breathes a sigh of relief. “Yes. Two Grey Wardens, along with an apostate, are supposed to meet us in Lothering in a few days. There’s…a lot we’ll need to talk about once they get here, but ah, ultimately, our goal will be to stop the Blight,” she explains. She thinks about Sten in the cage outside and how they’ll need to get him before they leave, and she thinks about all the things they’ll have to do after, and it’s very nearly overwhelming. Then there was the matter of Zevran, and how in the Goddess’s name were they going to join up with him? She sighed, rubbing her forehead. That was a problem for another day.

            “Very well. I can come by tomorrow and we can talk more,” Leliana says, standing. Arya stands as well, and Leliana envelopes her in a hug. Arya hesitates for a moment before she hugs her back, unused to the physical contact. Her friend group usually affectionately insulted each other and that was about it. But Leliana gave nice hugs and she smelled like wildflowers. Arya followed her out of the private dining room, rejoining Cailan at the bar while Leliana left to make her way back to the Chantry.

            “Here comes trouble,” Cailan says, a teasing lilt to his tone as she approaches. “Watch it, sweetheart,” she warns, a grin on her face as she sits down. He chuckles, motioning to the bartender to bring another drink for her. “Eliza and Brett have gone on upstairs. But our lovely guardswomen told me that she tried to buy you a drink. I think she was actually hitting on you earlier,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Oh, Goddess, if that’s the case then I need this drink,” she mutters, picking up the cup and sniffing it. It smells…well, it smells like alcohol. “What are you waiting for? Never drank before?” he asks, and there’s an undercurrent of laughter. “I’ve never drank anything alcoholic before, no,” she admits, and then she tosses it back.

            It is a valiant effort she makes not to spit it all out, and she’s rewarded by a god-awful aftertaste in her mouth when she finally swallows. “That tastes like piss. How can anyone enjoy drinking that?” she asks, her lip curling in disgust. Cailan throws an arm around her shoulders, both of them sliding off the seats and heading towards the stairs. “People don’t drink stuff like that for the taste, darling,” he says, and she shakes her head, taking the steps two at a time. She’s got a soda in her backpack, and while she’s going to miss soda, she decides that she wants to show him.

            “Well, this was fun and all, but I’ve got something for you to try,” she says, opening the door to their room and heading straight for her back. She digs the soda out, raising it up to him in a toast. He shuts the door behind him, sitting down on the edge of the bed and looking at her expectantly. She opens it, taking a sip first to wash the taste of the ale away. “This is Dr. Pepper and it’s a type of soda,” she says, holding it out to him. He takes it and sniffs at it cautiously before taking a drink. He looks surprised, and she figures it’s probably because of the fizz. “They’re a lot better cold, but it is what it is,” she says. He takes another sip and then passes it back to her. “You know, I think I prefer the ale,” he says, a cocky grin on his face. She laughs, screwing the lid back onto the drink before putting it on the nightstand.

            She sits down beside him on the bed, kicking her shoes off. “Leliana believed me, by the way,” she said. He gave her a sideways glance, that teasing sparkle still in his eyes. “Of course she did. You’re the most believable person with the most believable story in all of history,” he says, and she hits him, playfully. It escalates, and then she’s lying on her back while Cailan hovers over her, his hand hovering above her sides. “Don’t you dare!” she says, and then he is tickling her and she is trying not to shriek. “I hate you!” she says, trying to twist and squirm away from him. He laughs, tickling her mercilessly, until he pins her wrists above her head. “Do you yield?” he asks, his face close to hers. She glares up at him, defiantly trying to buck him off. He’s like a rock, though, and won’t move. He waits, a smug little smirk on his face until she admits defeat and slumps against the mattress. “Fine. You win, asshole,” she says, and he lets go of her wrists, sitting back. She lunges forward, then, using what momentum she can build up to throw them both off of the bed, landing heavily on top of Cailan.

            “Maybe not!” she crows, victoriously, but her victory is short lived. He’s strong enough to roll them over once more, making sure Arya lands gently. “You were saying?” he asks, and Arya lets out a groan. “I was saying that you are literally the worst for this,” she pouts, and Cailan laughs, rolling off of her to lay sprawled-out on the floor next to her. They are both panting lightly, and Arya’s sides ache from laughter. “I’ve not done something like that since I was a kid. Can we wrestle, next? Wrestling was always the most fun thing ever,” she says, after a few moments spent catching her breath. “Sure. It feels good to act like a kid again,” Cailan says, sitting up. Arya watches him, one arm crossed over her stomach. She realizes she’s already starting to feel like she belongs, and that scares the shit out of her. Maybe it just hadn’t sunk in yet.

            Not long after, Cailan goes to sleep. It takes Arya quite a bit longer to fall asleep, time that she spends staring at the ceiling in the dark before she finally drifts off. When she does sleep, she dreams.

            _She is a child, once again, staring up in awe at a waterfall. “Daddy, I want to climb it!” she says, turning excitedly to her father. “That’s not the best idea, Little Bit,” he says, ruffling her hair affectionately. “Why not?” she asks, and then her father is replaced by a figure that she can’t quite make out. “There might be things up at the top that you don’t need to see yet,” the figure says with her father’s voice, but Arya ignores it. It is, after all, no longer her father. She isn’t a child any longer, but she is still so young and inexperienced. She fumbles and curses and almost falls, but she starts to climb, the water making the rocks slick. She loses her grip before she reaches the top and she slides back down, landing ungracefully on her ass. She is left staring up at the figure, which has morphed into Cailan. He has a kind smile on his face as he reaches out a hand to pull her to her feet. “Careful, don’t want you getting hurt,” he says, and Arya smiles up at him. “Climb with me,” she says. He shakes his head, ever so slightly. “Not now. Now isn’t the time. Maybe later,” he says, and before Arya can puzzle out what the words mean, she wakes up._     


	8. all work and little play

The next day, Cailan leaves just after breakfast with Eliza and Brett, heading to the Chanter’s Board for work. Arya doesn’t quite know what to do with herself. Leliana had promised to come by after lunch, but lunch was ages away when she had so much free time and nothing to do. Cailan had also made her promise she wouldn’t go wandering around Lothering alone, so she wasn’t left with many options. So, for a while, she sat in the inn’s common room, staring morosely out the window and nearly driven mad with boredom.

            About half an hour of sitting there alone, a child approached her nervously. He look like he was ten, maybe, certainly not any older. “Excuse me, miss, but me mam is sick and we’ve got mending we need done. There’s no one else in the village who can do it, they’s all busy. Can you help us? We’ll pay you for your work,” he says, shifting nervously from one foot to another, and Arya smiles, suddenly grateful that her aunt had insisted on teaching her how to sew. “I’d love to help. I am, however, waiting for someone so I shouldn’t leave the inn. Could you go to the merchant across the bridge and bring me the things I’ll need for it?” she asks, already digging her wallet out. Cailan had said that dimes and nickels would pass as silver coins, and pennies would pass as copper, so she had almost a whole sovereign’s worth of money on her own. That should be plenty to purchase some scraps of fabric, some needles, and some thread. The boy nods, quickly, a smile flitting across his face. “I’ll be right back, miss, with the things you asked for and the work,” he promises, accepting her money and dashing off.

            Cailan had been kind enough to set up a tab at the bar, so she could at least eat and drink whatever she liked. She gets a pastry, some sweet and crumbly thing while she waits, picking at it as she stares out the window. When she sees the boy coming back, she pushes the plate away and dusts her hands off. “It were thirty silver for everything, miss. Mam said she’d pay you fifty silver when you finish, and for me to come by in three days’ time to pick it up. Does that work for you, miss?” he said, passing off the coins left over along with a burlap sack containing the mending work necessary and the purchased materials. “That works just fine for me, ser. If you could, though, spread word through the village that I’m willing to do this sort of work for any price,” she says, and the boy’s eyes light up. “Of course! Thank you, miss!” he says, and then he dashes off again. Arya smiles to herself, collecting her things and heading back up to her room.

            Her computer sat on the edge of the table, taunting her as she spread all the work out. She sighed, biting her lip. _Maybe later,_ she thought to herself _, when Cailan has returned._ With that, she picked up a needle, threaded it, and set to work. She finishes up just when Leliana arrives, knocking politely on the door before walking in. “You found work?” Leliana asks, as Arya sets it aside and starts gathering up the materials left over. “More like work found me. A kid came up to me while I was downstairs, not long after Cailan left. I sent him after the materials, and I got him to spread word around the village that I’m willing to do this sort of thing. It won’t bring in a lot, but it should bring in some, and it makes me feel useful,” she answers, shrugging.

            Leliana settles herself into the chair in the corner of the room, dressed in a normal dress rather than Chantry robes. “Is there anything in particular you want to talk about?” she asks. Arya frowns, biting her lip for a moment. “Yeah, actually. I, ah, don’t know anything about Fereldan customs. Not really. Especially hygiene practices,” she says, and she can feel herself blushing. Leliana laughs, a clear and bright sound, and Arya crosses her arms over her chest. “Of all the things I expected you to ask about, I must admit that hygiene was not one of them, although it’s to be expected. What do you wish to know?” she asks, doing her best to compose herself again, although she can’t keep a faint smile off of her face.

            “Well, uh, for starters…Goddess, I don’t even know where to start. Do you shave anything?” she asks, and she wants to bury her face in her hands and never look up again, even though this was a perfectly innocent question. “What do you mean?” the bard asks, her head cocked to the side. Arya sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “Back home, women shave almost everything. Legs, armpits, private bits,” she explains, and Leliana’s smirk widens for a few seconds. Arya doesn’t think the girl will lie to her, though. She’s not that cruel. “In Ferelden, it doesn’t seem to matter. I’ve seen an equal amount of women that shave and do not shave. In Orlais, though, more women shaved than did not,” Leliana explains.

            “Right, okay. I’ll probably keep shaving for comfort, then. What tools are used to shave, here? Back home we have these disposable razors, which I have one in my backpack, but that won’t last forever,” Arya asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “We have knives made specifically for this purpose. One of those traveling with you may have one. I’d suggest asking the guardswoman whenever you need to shave. The two men may tease you about it,” Leliana replies. Arya nods, filing the information away in her memory. At the very least, she hopes she’ll remember.

            “All right, next one. How do women here take care of periods?” she asks, and she’s almost afraid of the answer. “Periods? What are those?” Leliana asks, and Arya knows that this time, at least, Leliana isn’t teasing her. “Uh. Maybe you call them monthlies or something?” she says, and Leliana’s eyes brighten with recognition. “Oh, yes, we do. Most women use rags that they wash whenever they need. In Orlais, there are some rags made for this purpose. Their sewn together and stuffed with cotton, and they’re remarkably cheap. They’re to be discarded after use,” she explains, and Arya decides that she likes Orlais a lot more now. “Great, so Orlais is probably my favorite,” she says, sighing, and Leliana giggles. An honest to god, adorable giggle that makes Arya want to squish her.

            “Is there anything else you need to know?” the red-head asks, and Arya shakes her head. “Not right now. I may later, though,” she says, and Leliana nods. The conversation dissolves into something more casual and less awkward. They talk for an hour about nothing important before Leliana excuses herself to go off to the Chantry, so Arya heads back downstairs. She takes a book with her and sits in the common room for about an hour before Cailan arrives, sweaty and mucky but exuberant, with Brett and Eliza trailing behind him.

            “Hey,” Arya greets, marking her place and looking up. Cailan grins at her, sitting his helmet on the table. “I’m glad you suggested the Chanter’s Board. We went after some bears today, and some bandits. Nothing major, but it was kind of fun,” he said, and Arya rolls her eyes. “You think picking a fight with a bear is fun? Why am I not surprised?” she says, but she has a faint smile on her face as well. Eliza snorts, coming up beside them. “I don’t; not in the least. And we got disgustingly filthy. I’m going to go take the longest bath of my entire life,” the woman says, her nose wrinkled as she looks down at the mud and blood coating her armor. “Ah, Eliza, I thought the blood added to your charm,” Arya said, winking at her. The guardswoman just shook her head before heading back upstairs.

            Cailan watches her go, a thoughtful look on his face. “I think I’ll go to our room and take a bath, myself. Do you need anything from there?” he asks, turning to glance at her. “Nah, I’ve got my book. I do request the right to a bath later tonight, though,” she says, and he nods, picking up his helmet and ambling up the stairs without another word. Brett hops up in the chair across from her, a mug of ale, but he doesn’t seem intent on talking so she resumes reading. After a few minutes in silence, Brett speaks.

            “You’re lucky, you know. Not many people would believe you,” he says, softly. Arya looks up, her thumb marking her place in her book. “I know. I didn’t expect him to believe me, either. I’m surprised that anyone does,” she admits. Brett grins at her, one hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “I guess you’re just incredibly charismatic. Or maybe it’s the innocent, naïve feeling about you,” he says, and Arya laughs. “It’s incredibly easy to seem naïve and innocent when you know almost nothing about the world you’re in,” she remarks, and Brett nods. “Right you are, at that. I worry about you, though. Like you said, you don’t know anything about Ferelden, or the rest of Thedas. It’d be easy for someone to take advantage of that,” he says, and she takes a moment to look at Brett. He looks older, around forty years old.

            “Yes, people tend to be cruel. While I may not know the world, I know people,” she says. Still, his concerns are valid. Back home, people took advantage of her all the time because she was reluctant to be a jerk. Almost being killed rectified that some, but not much, and Arya doubted the people in Thedas would be as kind as the people back home. “That may be so, but I worry about you all the same. I’ve a daughter back home, about your age. I don’t know what your parents were like, but if you need one, you can come to me,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. Arya was touched. She reached across the table, putting her hand over Brett’s. She felt tears welling up in her eyes, of all things, and she smiled at him. “Thank you, Brett. That means a lot to me,” she says, and he squeezes her hand gently before pushing his seat back and making his way back to the bar.

            Eliza comes down the stairs, then, her hair still wet. She was wearing casual clothes, an old and patched dress that was actually quite becoming on her. “Oi, Brett, the room’s free if you need it,” she calls out, hopping onto the seat Brett had previously occupied. Brett raises his hand, gesturing to let her know she heard. Eliza turned to Arya, a glint in her eyes. “I hear the good king bought you an ale yesterday,” she said. Arya chuckled, running her hand through her hair. She made a face of distaste; her hair was entirely too greasy for comfort. “He did. It wasn’t to my taste, though,” she says, and Eliza grins wickedly. “Ale’s not the only thing we’ve got ‘round here. What do you say you let me buy you some…other samples?” the girl says, and Arya can see this branching off into a thousand different dangerous directions. “Maybe some other time. I’d like to ease myself into the wonderful world of alcohol,” she says, and while Eliza looks disappointed, she doesn’t push the issue. The chat lightly for a few minutes before Cailan comes down the stairs. “Arya, you’ve got a hot bath waiting for you upstairs,” he says, and Arya is leaves mid-sentence, rushing up the stairs. She doesn’t even hear their laughter.

            She spends an obscene amount of time soaking in the bathtub. The hot water relaxes muscles that she didn’t even know she had, much less knew they were tense, and it feels so wonderful to be properly clean again. Sure, she’d taken a bath in the river, but that water had been cold and hadn’t exactly produced the same effect. She gets out only reluctantly when the water begins to cool, and just for fun she puts on one of Cailan’s shirts. It’s just as huge as the other one was on her, but it feels comfortable. Just as she pulls it over her head, there’s a knock on the door.

            “Arya, dear, you didn’t drown in there, did you?” Cailan asks. “Surprisingly, no,” she says, making sure the shirt covered everything before opening the door and letting him in. He eyes her before reaching out and plucking on the sleeve of the shirt. “You know, you look nice in my clothes,” he said. She grinned up at him, but didn’t reply. He ruffled her hair affectionately, and then went over to the window, opening it and dumping the dirty water outside. It made sense now why the tub was so small. “I’ve got something I want to try,” she says, once he’s finished with the tub. “Oh?” he says, turning around to face her. “I’m going to contact Ella, my friend from back home. I…I don’t know if it’ll work. But we’ll see,” she says, and she is suddenly so much more nervous.


	9. old friends and far-off places

            Arya had been staring at Facebook for about twenty minutes now, the cursor hovering over her messages. Cailan was sitting beside her, one arm around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. She didn’t even know where to begin even thinking about how to go about this. “I don’t know what to say to her,” she admitted, finally. Cailan laced his fingers through hers, squeezing her hand gently. “Take your time,” he murmurs, and she sighs. “I guess I’ll go with humor,” she mutters, and then clicks the message box open.

            _Arya: hi, i’m tate, i’m dead, wanna hook up?_ She sends, and hopes for a reply. She wouldn’t put it past Ella to just let the message sit in her inbox.

            _Ella: What the fuck is wrong with you?_

_Arya: It’s me, El. Really me._

_Ella: What kind of sick, twisted fuck would do this to someone?_

_Arya: I mean it! It’s me!_

_Ella: My best friend is fucking dead, and you wanna play this game?_ Arya could almost see the snarl on Ella’s face, and if it weren’t for Cailan, she doubted she could do this. She was already about to cry. She hadn’t really expected Ella to believe her, not really, but it still hurt. She leaned back against Cailan, taking in the solid warmth of his presence before she replied.

_Arya: I’m not playing a game. It’s me. As in, Arya Huskins, dead girl. Except, I’m not really dead. It’s a long fucking story._

_Ella: I can’t believe some sick fuck is trying to pretend to be my dead friend. What the fuck._

_Arya: It really is me, El! And I’m not dead!! I didn’t expect you to believe me at first, but seriously._

_Ella: All right, then. Prove it. Say something that only we would know._

_Arya: Okay._

_Arya: Remember that time when we couldn’t find our classroom ‘cause the teacher had moved to a new room and we didn’t get the memo? We walked into class five minutes before it was over, and I was almost in tears. Mr. Elkridge was so angry with us he was about to combust, and you just walked up to him and told him that if he wasn’t going to send out proper notifications when someone switches rooms, then he didn’t have the right to be angry. It shut him up, but he held class over because of us._

_Arya: And that one time, you dared me to sneak into the city pool after hours with Alexis, because I had a crush on her. And I did, and the next morning you didn’t believe me until I sent you that picture of Alexis making out with me. Do you believe me yet?_

_Ella: Maybe. Nobody else would know those things. But Arya Huskins died. I was there when it happened, I saw her collapse. So stop playing these fucking games. I’m done._

_Arya: Fine. Video call me. I can prove it’s me._

_Ella: And you just assume I’m going to do this?_

_Arya: I don’t know what else you want from me._

_Ella: I don’t know either._

_Ella: Fine. I’ll Skype._

_Ella: After you give me some sort of goddamned explanation for what happened._

_Ella: And if it isn’t really my friend, I’m going to hunt you down._

_Arya: I don’t have an explanation. I’m probably more fucking confused than you are. All I know is that I woke up in fucking Thedas. As in, Dragon Age’s Thedas._

_Ella: Wow._

_Ella: I can’t fucking believe this._

_Ella: Dragon Age is just a game._

_Ella: Thedas isn’t real._

_Arya: I thought so too._

_Arya: But King Cailan is sitting here, probably inappropriately close, and he can vouch for Thedas’s realness._

_Ella: Wow. I don’t even know what to say._

_Arya: Then don’t say anything. Skype me, and let me prove it, goddammit._

_Ella: Fine. But if I don’t like what you say, or if you aren’t Arya, I’m calling the fucking police_.

The call comes in about twenty seconds later. Arya answers without any hesitation, and the first forty-five seconds, she and Ella just stare at each other. Cailan’s still there, curled around her, and Arya thanks whatever gods there are that she’d explained what was going to happen beforehand. His questions, while adorable, would have completely ruined the moment. “I can’t fucking believe this. Start from the beginning, and tell me everything,” Ella demands, and Arya slips her fingers through Cailan’s again for moral support. He squeezes, gently, and she starts to talk.

“I woke up not far from Ostagar. I thought at first that you guys had played a prank on me. Just carried me and my stuff somewhere and left us. But I didn’t recognize the area. Then when I finally asked someone where I was, I thought it was just a dream. So I find Cailan. Convince him that shit’s about to go down, and we get the hell out of there. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know how I have an internet connection. I don’t know how any of this works, or why it’s happening,” she says, and Goddess help her, she’s crying. It’s dark enough that she doesn’t think Ella can tell, though.

“Your first thought was to blame us?” Ella asked, and Arya couldn’t tell if the anger in her voice was real or fake. “You guys are assholes. It’s totally something you’d do if I fell asleep in class,” she replies, and Ella rolls her eyes. “You have a point. Wait, if there’s no electricity in Thedas, how are you charging your computer?” Ella asks, and something in Arya’s stomach clenches. “I’m not. I’ve got an idea, but I can’t make it work without a mage. For now, the thing’s just slowly dying. So, that means I won’t be able to talk a lot. I need to conserve the battery,” she says, and Ella frowns. “So how the hell am I going to know you’re okay?” she demands. Arya tenses, until she feels Cailan run his thumb along the back of her hand. She forces herself to relax.

“I could send a message once a day, but that’d drain the battery pretty quickly. I can check in every couple of days, maybe more if my, ah, idea works,” Arya suggests. Ella chews her bottom lip. “Fine. I can’t really expect anything else. Since the battery’s dying, and I have to go to work, I’ll cut this short. I love you, Ar. Be careful, and don’t do anything stupid,” she says, and Arya smiles. “I won’t. I love you too, El, and you be careful too,” she replies, and then the call ends. She shuts the computer, putting it on the nightstand again. Cailan shifts, letting her go and pulling the covers down.

Arya stands, pacing over to the window and looking out. “You all right?” Cailan asks. She crosses her arms. “I don’t know. Maybe. I still don’t know if I’ve processed all this. It’s…certainly an odd feeling. I’m technically dead, but here I am, very much alive. I just…I don’t know,” she says, turning back to him. He’s gotten under the covers, leaving the other side pulled down. “Come on to bed, it’s getting late,” he says, and Arya grins. “So eager to get me into bed, aren’t you?” she says, a smirk on her face. “Just get in the damned bed,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling as Arya crawls under the covers, curling up next to him like a cat. He curls around her, radiating heat, and Arya doesn’t know if it’s become a habit by this point.

*

            The next day, refugees start flooding in. They town is bursting at the seams with them and everyone is scrambling to accommodate them. For now, there’s just enough room, but only barely. Arya knows it’s only going to get worse before it gets better, and so she offers to do mending work for a copper a piece. She works most of the day doing that, down in the common room so more people can approach her. Cailan had got her plenty of sewing supplies, and she’d told him about Sten and what an asset he’d be. Once more refugees arrive with even less to their names, Arya starts mending their things for free. Cailan seemed to approve, and Brett told her one night he was proud of her.

            Four days after she messaged Ella, Eldris arrives with Morrigan, Alistair, and the dog. Alistair and Eldris look like death warmed over, pale and dirty. Morrigan fares much better. Arya had been just outside of Lothering when they arrived, picking any healing herbs she could find and safely identify. The dog saw her and charged ahead once Alistair gave her a friendly wave, knocking her over. The dog was nearly the same height as her, so she had no qualms about rolling in the dirt wrestling with him. Eldris spares her a glare as he walks into Lothering, and Morrigan gives her a nod as she walks past, following him. Alistair is the only one who stops, waiting until she stops rolling around with the dog before helping her up.

            “Does this handsome puppy have a name?” Arya asks, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “No. Mister Sunshine over there hasn’t spoken more than six words since we picked him up. I’ve been calling him Dog since no one else has named him, but I don’t think he likes that,” Alistair answers, reaching down to pat the dog’s flank. “Maybe Eldris will let me name him?” she suggests, hopefully. Alistair gives her a bright smile. “That’s a great idea!” he says, and then he offers her his arm. She links hers with his, and they walk into Lothering together.

            When they get to the inn, Eldris storms out, looking like a storm. “You could have warned me about that, shem!” he snarls, and Arya holds up her hands in a placating gesture. “Warned you about what, Eldris?” she demands. The dog moves to stand in front of her, and something in Arya glows at the thought of his dog protecting her. “Loghain’s men were in there. They think the Grey Wardens kidnapped the king because he went missing before the battle. They demanded to search me; like they thought I was hiding him in my trousers,” he growls, kicking at the ground. She lets out a deep breath, dragging a hand through her hair. “Jesus Christ, Eldris, you had me worried it was something serious! I didn’t know about Loghain’s men in there, for your information. We need to have a serious heart-to-heart before you start jumping down my throat,” she says, and he glares at her wordlessly, turning on his heel to march back inside. Arya throws her hands up and follows him.

            When she enters, their entire group is gathered around a table. An unfamiliar…creature, is there, a giant-horned man that Arya assumes is Sten. Leliana is sitting next to him, and Brett and Eliza are on the other side. On the opposite side of the table leans Morrigan, and Arya finds herself…appreciating the curve of her back as she leans over. When Morrigan turns to face her, the only thing Arya can think about is how desperately she wants to shove her face in between Morrigan’s legs. She coughs, turning red, as she and Alistair and Eldris join them. The dog’s tail thumps against her legs, and Arya reaches down to pet him again. “You know what, boy? I’m going to start calling you Sam. You like that name?” she says, and the dog wags his tail harder. She could swear a smile stretches across his face, too.

            “You are the seer, correct?” Morrigan asks, and Arya almost panics, instinctively looking for Cailan. He is, however, upstairs, confined to the bedroom until they leave. Arya forces herself to take a deep breath, calming down. “I am, yes. Would you like to speak to me in private?” she asks, her tone suddenly professional and business-like. “I would,” Morrigan replies, and then she leads the way up the stairs, her hips swaying tantalizingly. Leliana winks at Arya, who turns a darker shade of red, before following Morrigan.

            They shoo Cailan out of the room she shares with him, sending him across the hall. He grumbles, but he goes, taking a book with him. The door closes behind him, and Arya leans up against the wall, facing Morrigan. “Are you truly a seer?” she asks. Arya doesn’t answer for a moment, thinking. She doesn’t think she is, not truly, despite all her knowledge about the world, and despite her specific religious practices. “I don’t know. I might be, and I certainly do have dreams occasionally that I later realize mirrored future events. Calling myself a seer was the easiest way to describe what I was, and how I know what I do,” she says, finally, and Morrigan observes her carefully. “And what can you do? Aside from that, how are you at all useful to this party?” she asks, and Arya gives her a smirk. “I’m a mage, believe it or not. My magic only manifested recently, and there’s a whole story I’ve got to tell as to why it happened so late, but it’s one that involves everyone, and I’d like to wait until the big meeting to tell it. There’s something I wanted to ask you, related to that, though,” she says.

            “I’m listening,” Morrigan says, crossing her arms. The motion accentuates her chest, and Arya has to try really hard to keep her eyes on Morrigan’s face. “I was hoping you’d train me. I’m not yet sure how to call spells whenever I’d like, and that’s really quite important,” she says. A coy smile stretches across Morrigan’s face. “I am…willing to give you private lessons, once we leave Lothering,” she says, and Arya lets out a breath of relief. “Thank you, Morrigan. I’ll repay you for it, somehow, but I have a feeling we’ll be talking privately once more before the day is out,” Arya says. She had plans to explain her situation to everyone, then offer to meet with them privately so she can clear up what she does and does not know about them. “Perhaps you will,” Morrigan says, before turning and leaving the room. Arya is left with a lot of mixed feelings, but at least she hadn’t gotten a fireball to the face.


	10. i can move mountains (i can work a miracle)

            Everyone is called into a meeting not long after, all of them squeezing into the small room that Arya shares with Cailan. Cailan himself is desperately restless, having been mostly confined in the two rooms upstairs since the refugees started pouring into Lothering. It takes a lot of effort to get everyone situated, and even as it is, Sten ends up standing in the corner and Arya ends up sitting on Cailan’s lap. Once they all get settled, however, Arya’s stomach tenses as she realizes they’re all looking at her. She swallowed thickly, and Cailan’s fingers squeezed her hips, calming her a little. “All right, all-knowing seer, I suggest you start talking,” Eldris demands, and Arya takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She honestly didn’t know how much patience she could devote to dealing with the angry man.

            “All right, listen here. The future isn’t set in stone. Anything I saw is subject to change, and some of it has already. I have no guarantee of the future, only what might happen. I’ve already messed with a lot, changing the course of it so drastically everything else might turn out different. In my visions, King Cailan died at Ostagar along with Warden-Commander Duncan. As you can see, this man is very much alive and if he doesn’t stop pinching me, that’s not going to last for very long,” she says, and by the time she finishes, twisting to glare pointedly at Cailan, her teeth are clenched. He just smirks at her, raising his hands up in a placating gesture. She shakes her head, then continues. “Anyway, he’s alive, and Loghain is inquiring about his disappearance, not accusing the remaining Grey Wardens of murder. Things are already different, and I don’t know how it’s going to work out in the end,” she says, and the room is met with silence for a few heartbeats as everyone processes what she’d said.

            Of course, Eldris is the one to challenge her. He crosses his arms, and narrows his eyes at her. “How do we know you aren’t making all this up to save your own ass?” he asks, his ears flattened against his head. The sight reminds her so much of a snarling cat that she almost laughs. Instead, she shakes her head slightly before rattling off everything she could remember from the Dalish origin story. “You were hunting in the forest with your friend, Tamlen, when some shemlens stumbled too close to your camp. They mentioned ruins with artifacts, and Tamlen insisted upon investigating. You went, and you found the ruins, but they were strange. The architecture was human and the artifacts were elven, and then you found the mirror. Tamlen saw something moving inside, and then he touched it and you passed out. Warden-Commander Duncan found you and you alone outside the cave. He brought you back to camp, and it took you a few days to wake up. When you did, Keeper Marethari sent you back to the ruins with her First, Merrill, to look for Tamlen. All you found were darkspawn, and Duncan- who was standing in front of the mirror. He said that it was tainted, told you that it was an artifact originating out of Tevinter. He was wrong, although you don’t know that. He then smashed it, and you eventually returned to camp, where it was discovered that you were sick with the taint. Duncan then conscripted you into the Wardens and you left your clan. Am I missing anything, _lethallin_?” she says, staring at him coolly. 

            A smirk curves Eldris’s lips upwards, the first expression she’d seen on his face that wasn’t a scowl. “You know about the mirror?” he asked, almost casually. Arya, however, saw the desperate hunger lurking somewhere deep in his gaze. “Yes, I do. It was an eluvian, and at one point in time, mirrors like it spanned the ancient elven empire. Surely you’ve noticed that the ancient elves left no roads, only ruins spread far apart? They used the eluvians to travel between them. If the mirror had not been tainted, perhaps you could have gotten it to work and stepped through. It is a piece of your history, elven in origin,” she says, and there is something undeniably sad that flickers across Eldris’s face. She almost pushes Cailan’s hands away, almost stands and embraces him, but something stops her. Most likely survival instinct, but it stops her nonetheless, and Eldris is left processing this on his own. The conversation moves forward.

            “Do you know these sorts of things about the rest of us?” Sten asks, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Most of you, yes. I’d also like to make a blanket statement, here and now, that I will not reveal anything about any of you intentionally. If you’d like, you can meet with me individually and find out what I do know about you. I’m not all-knowing, but I do have quite a bit of knowledge that most of you wouldn’t like to come to light,” she says, and the room is oppressively silent still.

            “So, in short, you are telling us that you know some, if not all, of our major secrets?” Morrigan inquires, a hard edge to her tone. Arya does her best to sit up straighter. “Yes, that is what I’m saying. I’m also saying that I won’t betray those secrets. They are yours to tell or keep as you see fit,” she affirms, and she can tell that almost none of these people trust her. Cailan, it seems, is perhaps the only one who does. Well, aside from Sam, but she doesn’t really count the dog. He had no secrets that she could possibly betray, and she was a mostly good person, so really while she was honored that Sam liked her, she didn’t count him. Not in this, at any rate.

            Cailan leans forward, then, his breath tickling the back of her neck. She can’t stop herself from cringing. “Are you going to tell them about the, ah, thing?” he asks. She tries to keep a straight face, but she can’t quite keep the grin off of her face. “Which thing? There have been several things,” she says, and he rolls his eyes. “Take your pick, pup,” he says, and she chuckles. She realizes that she still has the attention of the others, and since he’s said something, she has to talk.

            “Well, there are a couple of things that I need to get out. The first one is relatively easy: I’m a mage. My magic developed, like, ten days ago so I have no actual idea what I’m doing? But that’s a thing that’s happening. Then there’s another one that’s a lot harder to explain,” she says, and she takes a deep breath. Everyone is looking at her expectantly, and for one heart-wrenching second she is wracked with anxiety. She shakes it off, or at least successfully manages to ignore it, despite the sudden feeling of nausea.

            “I don’t know the how or the why. All I know is that I’m not from Thedas. This isn’t my world. I’m from a place called Earth, the United States specifically. Around the time my magic manifested, I had a dream, or maybe it was a vision, I don’t know. I do know that back there, I’m dead. I’m sitting here, walking and talking and breathing and living, but back there I’m dead. I, ah, don’t think it’s quite sunk in yet, but yeah, you might notice some strange things about me,” she says, and suddenly it hits her all over again. She’s dead, and she’s lost almost everything she’s ever known. She is definitely going to freak out about that tomorrow.

            “Well, that is useful information, even if we don’t believe you. However, we should discuss the more immediate matters,” Morrigan says, a smirk quirking the corners of her mouth upwards. Arya mutely nods her agreement, and Cailan shifts her slightly so he can see around her a little better. “Are there any others that we need to pick up, Arya?” he asks. She frowns, thinking in her head. She glances around, taking stock of the people they’ve already picked up. “Yes. It should be fairly easy to get Wynne and Oghren, but Zevran might be a bit more difficult. In my vision, he was sent after Alistair and Eldris because Loghain believed they had betrayed and killed Cailan. Zevran is a member of the Antivian Crows. I’m not entirely certain how we could get him to join us, but he was an incredibly valuable part of the team, and trustworthy once his life was spared,” she explains, shifting uncomfortably.

            “Cailan remains unidentified, no?” Leliana asks. Arya nods, and she can almost see the gears turning in Leliana’s head. “Very well. I suggest we spread rumors that Eldris and Alistair have kidnapped him and are keeping him somewhere. Perhaps Loghain will then send out the assassin,” she says. Eldris shifts, stepping forward and bouncing on the balls of his feet. His ears have perked up, standing at attention, and Arya is momentarily fascinated by the way they move. “We could fake his death. If Loghain suspects he is dead, we’re back to square one,” he suggests, and Arya could swear he sounds proud. “How would we fake his death? Rumors are easy to accomplish; that is somewhat more difficult,” Morrigan points out, and Arya is intensely attracted to the woman in this moment. She shifts again, starting to get restless. She wasn’t sure how long the meeting had gone on, but it felt like it’d lasted way too long. Eldris’s ears droop slightly.

            “I’d like to use the rumors. Faking my death would require a body that looks like me, and I don’t want to think about how we’d find out. Leliana can start them up here, in Lothering, and with as many refugees coming and going word will get out somehow. I can travel with you until then, which leads us to the next thing on our agenda. What are we doing? Where are we going to go to get allies?” Cailan says, and it is Alistair who steps forward to answer. “We’ve got treaties requiring the elves, dwarves, and Circle mages to provide the Grey Wardens with assistance. Arl Eamon should also provide us with allies. I thought perhaps we could go to Redcliffe first, and stop by the Circle afterwards on our way to Orzammar. Geographically, that seems to make the most sense. At least, in my opinion,” he says, his tone polite and respectful. He steps back, leaving the floor open.

            “Arya, do you know what will happen when we go to get allies?” Leliana asks. Arya slides to the edge of the seat, balancing on Cailan’s knees. He keeps his hands on her hips to steady her, or, if the need arises, catch her if she starts to fall. “I know what might happen. In my visions, the elves of the Brecilian Forest were suffering from werewolf attacks. There was…a lot to deal with when it came to fixing the curse, but it wasn’t ultimately too hard to solve the problem. The Circle is likely experiencing unrest, and in my visions by the time you all arrived, it was overrun by blood mages and abominations. In Orzammar, there was intense political unrest because King Aeducan died- his son and a dwarven lord by the name of Harrowmont were locked in a political battle. In my vision, there were several tasks that whoever you supported wanted you to complete, and once a king was named, assistance was promised,” she says, picking at a spot on her jeans.

            “What about Redcliffe?” Alistair asks, and Arya looks down at the floor. “In my vision, when you arrived, it was nearly overwhelmed with monsters that rose at night. Arl Eamon had been poisoned, and Conner was possessed. I don’t know if that’s how it will be when we get there, but it’s not pretty,” she says, her voice softer than it was a minute ago. “We’ll handle it, like everything else. What should we do first?” Eldris says, his voice brisk and hard, but the glance he shoots at Alistair is soft and gentle and sympathetic. Arya supposes that Eldris understands what it’s like to have your home under attack.

            “I’d like to go to Redcliffe first,” Alistair says, and there is something strained in his voice. “Of course. We’ll leave for Redcliffe in the morning, and then afterwards we can go to the Circle. Your plan was a fine one,” Eldris said, and Alistair gives him a grateful smile. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?” Morrigan asks, her arms crossed in front of her chest. No one can think of anything, so they all disperse. They’d be leaving in the morning before dawn breaks, Morrigan and Eldris and Alistair camping just outside of Lothering while the others stay in their rooms.

            Arya makes the most of the inn while she can. She takes another bath, soaking in it for a while, and then she washes her clothes. She is, perhaps, most upset about the lack of regular hygiene. Later, she sits in the bed, and she thinks. Cailan is nearly asleep next to her, laying on his side with heavy-lidded eyes. Mostly, he’s just watching her. “You get the most adorable little crinkle in between your eyes when you’re thinking,” he says, and Arya glances down at him with a half-smile, the crinkle between her eyes relaxing. “I don’t even know I’m doing it,” she says, and he smiles, pulling her down next to him. “It’s cute. Don’t stop,” he says, and she lets out a chuckle. “Aye, aye, sir,” she says, in mock seriousness. He reaches out, pushing her hair out of her face. Part of her is almost uncomfortable; there is a fluttering in her stomach and she doesn’t know how to feel about this.

            “Get some sleep,” Cailan murmurs, and she curls closer to him, her eyes shutting almost of their own accord. It must have been a lot later than she realized, and she feels him shift behind her, blowing out the candle before laying back down and gathering her against him.


	11. on the road again (i just can't wait to get on the road again)

            Morning comes way too early for Arya’s comfort. When Cailan throws back the curtains, letting the weak early morning sunlight stream in, she rolls over onto her stomach and buries her face in the pillows. “I’d forgotten how hard you were to wake,” he muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed. She let out an incoherent mumble, sinking deeper into the bed. Cailan reached out, laying a hand on her back. “Arya, you need to get up,” he says, gently. She whimpers something into the pillows, and he sighs. “Will you get up if I close the curtains and just light a candle?” he asks, and part of her wonders how he’s so patient with her. She gives him a definitive yes, one that he can hear through the pillows, and a few seconds later, most of the offending light is gone, with only a candle burning in the darkened room.

            She rolls over onto her back, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. “You promised,” Cailan says, his voice a warning tone. “I’ll get up. Just….really slowly,” she says, and he joins her on the bed again, reaching out to her. She sits up slightly, curling into his side. He wraps his arm around her, rubbing circles on her back with his thumb. “You all could totally just leave me here,” she says, after a few minutes. Her body aches because she didn’t get enough sleep, the tiredness threading through her bones. “The darkspawn would get you, if we did that,” he said, amusement laced through his tone. “You know, at this point, I’m ready to embrace death so long as I get to sleep in,” she grumbles, and he laughs, pushing her gently into a sitting position. She swings her legs over the bed automatically, wrapping the sheet around her shoulders.

            He gives her a one-armed side hug, despite her grumbling, and stands, stretching. His shirt rides up over his stomach, and Arya finds herself wondering how in the hell someone can have abs that are that defined. “We leave in two hours,” he tells her, and her eyes go back up to his face, where a cocky grin sits. She rolls her eyes, and contemplates just shoving her face back into the blankets. Instead, she throws the blanket off of her shoulders and stands up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “I’m going to murder whoever suggested we get up at the ass-crack of dawn,” she mumbles, going over to her bag and pulling out her underclothes.

            “I wish I could get away with just wearing jeans and a t-shirt,” she complains, and then Cailan is there, his hands resting lightly on her hips. “You could. Of course, that might just be the last outfit you ever wear,” he says, and she shakes her head, chuckling. “That’s kind of the entire reason that I’m not,” she says, and he steps back, letting her gather up all the pieces of her armor. She makes a face at it as she strips out of her pajamas, pulling on the underclothes. “I’ll help,” Cailan says, and while that made the task a lot easier, it was still something that Arya was ready to be done with before it even started. Eventually, they got her strapped and fastened into her armor, and then Cailan got dressed while Arya sorted through the crap in her bag. She didn’t need her notes or books from school, so she dumped them in the fireplace, freeing up some much-needed space in her bag.

            When she finally makes it downstairs, Eldris is the only one there, slumped miserably over a cup of tea. Sam is curled up at his feet, still sleeping, although he perks up for a moment when Arya walks down the stairs. She slides into the seat next to Eldris, the barkeep groggily setting down a cup of tea in front of her. No one, it seemed, was ready to be up this early in the morning. “Who decided that leaving this early was a good idea?” she grumbles. Eldris glances at her sideways, one hand tangled in his hair. That was probably the only thing keeping his head held up, actually. “I don’t know, but if I find out who, I am going to stab them,” he replies, and Arya takes comfort in the fact that neither of them are morning people. “Hey, by the way, I was wondering if we could talk, later,” she says, propping her chin up on her hands. “What about?” Eldris asks, and this is perhaps the least angry she’s ever seen him. “About you. And the Dalish. If you’d rather not talk to a human about it, I understand, but I’d really like to know,” she says, swinging her feet through the air. “Why do you want to know?” he asks, and his tone is slightly guarded but mostly curious. “I…I don’t really have a solid answer. Only that my religion has lost a lot, too, because of an organization like the Chantry. I guess maybe I want to see if there are any similarities. And I’d just like to know. If you’d rather not talk to me about Dalish culture, that’s fine, but I am interested in getting to know you as a person. Maybe things will be less antagonistic between us if that’s the case,” she says.

            Eldris actually smiles, reaching out and patting her heartily on the back. “All right, lethallan. If you still want to talk by the end of the day, we’ll talk once we set up camp,” he says, and Arya smiles brightly. Morrigan enters the tavern, a few minutes later, looking completely unbothered by the early time. Arya bites her lip as she watches her walk towards them, wondering why she found her so attractive. She joins them at the table, sitting back as far as she can. She doesn’t speak, other than a muttered greeting, and it’s about five minutes before Leliana enters a few minutes later, dressed in leather armor, a bow hanging on her back. Alistair follows almost immediately, looking tired but entirely too cheerful. They both slide into seats nearby, and the two of them start talking animatedly. “Hey, guys, you’re great and all, but it’s too early in the damn morning,” Arya complains. Leliana laughs, but mostly ignores her, and then Cailan comes down the stairs with Brett and Eliza following. Sten is the only one left, but they’d agreed to meet him near his cage.

            Once they all double-checked that they had everything, they headed out. Sten was indeed waiting by his cage, deep in meditation. It felt wrong to disturb him, but they needed to get moving. Brett was the brave soul who cleared his throat. “Sten? We’re all ready to go,” he said, quietly, and Sten cracked one eye open and then the other before rising. They’d found a mismatched set of armor for him, and a heavy battle-axe, but Arya could see he didn’t feel comfortable.

            The darkspawn attacked as they reached the wall, just like they had in the game. Cailan, Alistair, Sten, Brett, and Eliza all rushed forward, doing an incredible job of tanking. Leliana hung back, firing arrows into the fray, and Eldris disappeared and reappeared near Bodahn and Sandal. Morrigan stood nearby, flinging ice and fire and electricity at the darkspawn. Arya was the only one not doing anything, hanging back incompetently.

            A Hurlock broke away from the main group. It was big, and ugly, with a heavy great sword on its back. It let out a snarl as it rushed towards her, and Arya panicked. Time seemed to speed up and she thrust her hands out. She reached deep inside herself, pulling on that wild, primal thing and urging it to come out. It did, ice freezing the Hurlock solid. She held her breath for a few moments, the silence ringing in her ears. Everyone else, it seemed, had taken care of the others, and their eyes were on her. She brought her hand above her head, then brought it down in a sharp slicing motion. The Hurlock shattered, and the stench finally reached her. She almost gagged, but she swallowed it down, and then Cailan was there. “Hey, you did good,” he murmured, pulling her hair back away from her face. “Deep breaths,” he urged, and by the time he’d calmed her down, everyone else was ready to move on. She thought perhaps she should be embarrassed, but her magic was still there, thrumming underneath the surface, and she couldn’t bring herself to care.

            “Your technique could use some work. At the very least, however, you have a very good foundation to build upon,” Morrigan said, and Arya flashed her a smile. “Does that mean you’ll teach me?” she asked. The black-haired woman gave her a rare, indulgent smile. “Of course it does. It would hardly do for some Chantry mage to teach you,” she said, and Arya felt more triumphant over that than actually killing the darkspawn.

            They gathered their things once more and headed out, looking forward to an entire day of walking. Arya wasn’t pleased about that, considering they rarely stopped to rest, but there was still some part of her that felt oddly energized. She walked next to Cailan, Sam trotting by her side, and while they occasionally filled the silence with small talk, most of the time the entire group of them were silent.

            When they finally made camp, Arya insisted on setting up her own tent. She spent thirty minutes working diligently before she ended up tangled and miserable. Cailan took pity on her, then, taking over and setting it up in about ten minutes. “We’ll share, all right?” he says, and she nods. Leliana was bent over the campfire, stirring something in a pot, but she thought it’d be awhile before supper was finished. Eldris was cleaning his daggers, and she didn’t feel like bothering him, so she made her way to Morrigan’s sequestered campsite.

            “Are you here for lessons?” Morrigan asked. Arya nodded, sitting on a log and looking up at Morrigan. The view from down there was quite nice, after all. “Very well. One of the most important spells that you could ever learn is a basic healing one. With it, you’ll be able to help yourself and others. Most mages, however, have an affinity for specific groups of magic. I am most proficient with electricity magic, although I have no idea what you’ll find the easiest to learn,” she said, dragging another log over in front of Arya. The two of them set to work in earnest, then, Arya stubbornly determined to learn the spell before the night was over. Cailan came over, eventually, sitting next to Morrigan and watching them working.

            Morrigan decided the best way to teach was through practice, so she made a small, shallow cut on Arya’s wrist after teaching her the spell. “Heal it,” she ordered, and though it took Arya a few tries, she managed it. It was messily done, leaving a small, raised scar, but she’d done it. She held her wrist out to Cailan, a delighted smile on her face. “I did it!” she said. “That you did,” he replied, chuckling. Morrigan had a faint smile of amusement on her face. “That’s enough for tonight. It’s amazing that you managed to cast it that quickly,” Morrigan praised, and Arya almost glowed. Cailan stood, helping her to her feet, and they headed off towards the campfire. “I can’t believe I actually did it!” she said, and he grinned, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Maybe you’re a natural born healer,” he says. She smiles, thoughtfully. “Perhaps I am. That’d be nice,” she says.

            She’s so tired that she almost falls asleep in her stew. Cailan rescues her, taking the stew out of her hands and passing it off to Eldris. “I think we’re ready for bed,” Cailan says, laughter in his voice. Arya mumbles something, and he scoops her up into his arms. She curls closer, already almost asleep. He shakes his head fondly as he ducks into their tent, settling down for the night. Eldris and Alistair were going to take turns on watch, making sure that no darkspawn crept up on them. They weren’t going to keep that schedule up long, only until they were well on their way to Redcliffe, but it had been decided that Arya would stay out of the watch rotation indefinitely. She wouldn’t be much help.

            That night, though, Arya dreamt. When she woke, all she remembered was running through a forest, sunlight dancing on the ground, and laughter chasing after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pacing of this chapter felt a little awkward so uh sorry about that? It was mostly filler and I'm not good at filler unless it's conversation or deep, introspective thought. I don't want to drag things out too long, but at the same time I don't want to rush it, so I'm going to try and find that balance somewhere. I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, regardless of the awkward pacing!


	12. for every one of us, there's an army of them (but you'll never fight alone)

            When Arya woke the next morning, she was stiff and sore and almost as unwilling to get up as she had been the previous morning. Despite having gone to sleep next to Cailan, she was alone when she finally forced her eyelids apart. Were it not for the ache in her bladder and the desperate dryness of her throat, she’d have stayed on her miserable pallet until someone came to retrieve her. As it was, she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and crawled out of the tent to see everyone huddled around Eldris and Alistair, a map held in their hands. Leliana glanced up at her and waved her over, but otherwise everyone stayed focused on the task at hand. She jogged over, the need to relieve herself momentarily forgotten.

            “What’s going on?” she asked. It is Eldris who answers, looking up with something that’s not quite a scowl but isn’t entirely friendly either.

            “We’re trying to figure out how long it’s going to take us to get to Redcliffe. It’d be easier and quicker on the roads, but we don’t want to risk someone discovering Cailan. Most of us are used to the terrain, or at the very least traveling with little to no rest…” he said, trailing off.

            “But I’m not, and I’m holding everyone back?” she said, finishing his sentence. He nodded sheepishly and she sighed, dragging her fingernails through her hair.

            “I doubt we could go much faster, even if you weren’t with us. The terrain is unpredictable, we’re all wearing full armor while we’re traveling, and we’re all carrying our own gear,” Alistair says, and Leliana nods in agreement.

            “While that makes me feel a lot better, I also think you’re lying to make me feel better. Aside from Leliana and perhaps Cailan, the rest of you are used to traveling like this. I’m not. At all. I’m clumsy and weak compared to the rest of you. I’m holding you back, I know,” she says, swallowing thickly afterwards. She balls her hands into fists at her sides. She chews nervously on her bottom lip.

            “Regardless, you are here. If we can keep up yesterday’s pace, we can get there in eight days, maybe a little sooner,” Alistair replies, kindly.

            “How soon could you be there if I wasn’t with you?” she asks, almost afraid of the answer.

            “We could be there in five and a half days,” Sten answers, and Arya feels immensely guilty, clenching her jaw to prevent saying something reckless. They spend a few more moments gathered around the map before Alistair folds it up and slips it into his pocket. Leliana passes out breakfast, and then they pack up the camp. They are gone before the sun has fully slipped over the horizon.

*

            Arya tried valiantly to keep a higher walking speed, but with her backpack weighing her down and tree roots tripping her up, she couldn’t go nearly as fast as she’d have liked. She did manage to move a little faster than yesterday, despite her aching and sore muscles. Alistair fell easily into step beside her, smiling. “You’re doing great, Arya. You don’t need to push yourself to impress any of us,” he says. She shakes her head, stubbornly.

            “I do, though. If it weren’t for me, you could get there so much faster. I don’t even belong here. Everyone probably thinks I’m just some spoiled kid, and by the standards of your world, they aren’t wrong,” she says, and she doesn’t know if that’s bitterness in her tone or something else. Alistair shakes his head, almost violently.

            “I don’t think that, and I doubt the others do. Well, Sten might, but the Qunari view things differently anyway. You’ve lived a very different life than the rest of us, sure, but you come from a different place. There’s a lot you don’t know about this world, but any of us wouldn’t even know where to start in your world. You’re doing great, Arya,” Alistair argues, and a smile tugs the corners of her mouth upwards, despite herself.

            “Thanks, but even I can sense their impatience,” she says, glancing at the rest of their traveling companions. Morrigan and Eldris are far ahead, talking about gods know what. Cailan has trailed behind, speaking to Leliana, and Sten is in the front, leading their party stoically, but perhaps impatiently.

            “They’re like that with everyone,” Alistair said, and Arya laughed. She was extremely appreciative of Alistair, especially at that moment.

            “Thank you, Alistair. I feel a lot better now, although I still feel bad about holding everyone back,” she says. He slings an arm around her shoulder, ruffling her hair playfully.

            “Anytime,” he replies, grinning.

*

            They stop a little later than they had the night before, and Arya is so tired and sore and incredibly cranky. She helps Cailan pitch their tent, and then she drags Leliana to the river, washing herself as best as she can with the limited supplies. The water is breathtakingly cold, and while Leliana laughs at her, she eventually joins in. When they return to the camp, supper is ready, and Arya curls up next to the fire and eats.

            She has retreated to her tent and is cleaning her armor when Eldris approaches. She and Cailan both look up, and Arya is surprised to see him. “You said you wanted to talk?” he asks. It takes her a moment to recover from her surprise, admittedly.

            “Yes, of course. Find somewhere and sit down,” she says, nodding at some of the empty space left in the tent. Gingerly, he settles down near the tent’s exit, eyeing Cailan warily.

            “Did you have any specific questions?” he asks, once he’s settled. His knees are pulled up to his chest, almost defensively.

            “Not about the Dalish. However, can you do tattoos that aren’t vallaslin? I know that the vallaslin are blood markings to honor your Creators,” she says, and Eldris’ ears perk up a little.

            “I do, actually. Do you want one?” he asks, and Arya almost shoves her armor off of her lap.

            “Yes! I’ve got several picked out. Some of mine honor my gods and goddesses, others are just personal. Would you be willing to give me a tattoo? I’ll even pay you,” she says, leaning forward. Cailan grins to himself at her enthusiasm.

            “I can give you one now, if you like. While I work, I can talk about some of my culture,” Eldris offers, and Arya grins, her entire face brightening.

            “I’d love that,” she says, placing her armor carefully off to the side. Eldris scrambles out of the tent and waits for her. A few minutes later, she comes crawling out, her computer in hand.

            “So, what do you want, and where?” he asks. She thinks for a moment, considering. She had so many tattoos she wanted to get, but she had no idea where she wanted to get all of them at.

            “For my first one, I want the triple goddess symbol on my back, maybe in between my shoulder blades? I’ll show you a picture of what it looks like,” she says. He ducks inside his tent, holding the flap open for her. He motions for her to settle down on the blanket. She stretches out, pulling up a picture of the symbol she wanted. He digs through his pack, pulling out the ink and the needle.

            “I can do that. Go ahead and take your shirt off,” he instructs. She almost makes a joke, but thinks better of it, pulling the shirt over her head and leaving it beside her. Eldris takes a moment to get situated, settling down comfortable at her side. He readies the materials, and then Arya is on her way to getting her first tattoo.

            While Eldris works, he talks, telling her stories that Hahren Paviel had told him growing up, telling her about why he chose Mythal’s vallaslin, about Tamlen, about stories from his childhood. By the time he’s finished, Arya feels like she knows him a lot better.

            “Thank you, Eldris. I appreciate this,” she says, giving him a soft smile. He returns it, for once, and Arya thinks he looks so incredibly _young._ He sends her back to her tent with instructions on how to care for her new tattoo, and she falls asleep for the night.

* * *

            The next few days pass with increasing monotony. At night, once a camp has been set up, Arya either trains with Morrigan, leans more about practical combat from Leliana, or talks with the various members of the group. She spends the least amount of time with Sten, because he intimidates her, because he doesn’t seem like he enjoys her company, because she’s afraid of offending him. She spends the most time with Alistair and Cailan, the two of them being most accommodating and friendly. While the others were mostly totally polite (a few exceptions coming from Morrigan’s caustic remarks or Eldris’ hasty ones or Leliana’s teasing ones) Arya didn’t feel as comfortable with them. She was cold, tired, achy, and hungry most of the time. Everything, it seemed, hurt, and the nightly training sessions with Leliana and wooden daggers never helped. She was convinced she was dying, half the time.

            “Are you sure you can do this?” Eldris asked once, from the sidelines where he watched, and Arya’s jaw clenched with determination and her eyes hardened.

            “I’m fine,” she’d snarled, and leaped at Leliana with a new fervor. She fought tooth and nail, throwing everything into her attacks. She blocked most of Leliana’s, landed a few of her own, and by the time they separated, panting, Arya had done a good job for a beginner.

            “I doubt you can do better,” Eldris had said, a shit-eating grin on his face. She’d wiped the sweat from her brow, taken a drink of water, and glared at him wordlessly.

            It was on the sixth night, a half day’s walk from Redcliffe, that Arya checked in with Ella once more, this time to let her meet the rest of the group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm back again with another filler chapter w/e I hope you liked it anyway even though I don't know what I'm doing. I thought about having them just get to Redcliffe but I don't want to rush things either so here we are. As always, comments are (more than) welcome about how you liked it, or even about ideas and things you want to see coming up. While I've got a good bit of the proper story fleshed out, there's also a lot of stuff that I'm adding and removing and switching around, so I can probably get to any requests if you have them (and if the characters cooperate.) Basically just comment if you liked this even a little- it means a lot to me and gives me a ton of motivation. Thanks so much for reading!


	13. in another world

     Two nights before she introduced Ella to the rest of her merry band of misfits, she’d been talking to Morrigan while the two of them worked at mending some of their clothing. The witch was surprisingly curious about her, and Arya wasn’t whether or not that she should be nervous. “You said you knew some of our secrets. Shall I assume that mine are included?” she asked, and Arya froze.

            “I- yes. They are,” she answers, after a moment. Morrigan’s golden eyes narrow, and there is a flinty edge to them that hadn’t been there a few seconds ago.

            “What do you know of me?” she asks, and though she’d made a good attempt at keeping her voice steady and her tone casual, there was an edge to it. Arya resumed sewing, nervously, as she began to talk.

            “You grew up with Flemeth in the Korcari Wilds. Your father was likely Chasind in origin. Flemeth was far from nurturing, but she taught you everything you know. Some would offer you pity for your childhood, but you don’t want it. She taught you how to survive, and that’s what matters- to you, at least. Once, when you were young, you ventured outside of the Wilds. You found a noble’s golden hand mirror, and you were delighted with your treasure. When you returned to Flemeth, however, she smashed the mirror to teach you a lesson. Sentimentality, it seems, is not an option for those who value survival. Flemeth sent you with Eldris and Alistair, not to kindly provide aid, but because you have knowledge of a ritual, performed on the eve of battle. If the ritual is performed, the old god’s untainted soul will pass into the child conceived during the ritual,” she says, and halfway through she stops sewing, focusing on speaking.

            Morrigan’s hands have stilled, as well. “I am…impressed at your knowledge. But you mustn’t speak of this ritual to anyone else. I would not have my time away from the Wilds cut short because others got suspicious,” she says, and Arya gives her what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

            “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. It isn’t mine to tell, anyway. But I can…I can show you, where my visions come from. A little explanation will probably be in order first, but it would be of great interest to you, I think,” she says, and she wonders if she will live long to regret this decision. None she know would appreciate being told their lives were a game.

            “Very well. Begin your explanation, and then show me,” Morrigan says, and she resumes sewing. Arya wonders how much damage the witch could do if she stabbed her with the needle in a fit of rage. Arya places her own needlework down, and pulls her computer out of her bag. It still had almost seventy percent battery life, thankfully.

            “In my world, we have these things called video games. I suppose…the closest thing here would be an interactive play. These are probably not like the games you have here. They…their purpose is to tell stories. I didn’t have visons, not truly, but there is a game about the Fifth Blight, which we are currently living. It is…it is ridiculous, I think, now that it’s real,” she says, picking her words carefully. Morrigan tenses once more.

            “You are saying our lives are just a game to you?” the witch asks, and her voice is cold and deadly. Fear and arousal in equal parts shoot through Arya, and she knows she’s walking a very thin line.

            “Yes and no. Like I said, the purpose of the game is to tell a story. In this case, it is Eldris’s story. It would be like having the whole thing written in a book,” she explains, and while Morrigan isn’t entirely pleased, it seems she is willing to stomach the explanation.

            “Show me,” she demands, her voice like cold steel, so Arya does. She boots up the game, and, with Morrigan sitting at her shoulder, shows her the basic controls, and then lets her take over. She watches nervously, but part of her is hit with the reality of the situation. Morrigan is sitting on a log in the middle of a forest, with a laptop on her lap.

            Morrigan isn’t entirely happy with the idea of their lives being in a game, but she accepts it readily enough once she’s started playing. Arya lets out a breath of relief, packing her computer up and going to supper. She makes a mental note to ask Morrigan about electricity spells and charging the damn thing later.

* * *

            The next night, when they stop, she does just that. Morrigan is the only one who can hold the spell for prolonged periods of time, and Morrigan is the one who is currently using the computer the most, so Arya leaves it in the witch’s capable hands, observing from a distance.

* * *

            It is the day after when she ends up introducing Ella to everyone else. She’d been pulled aside by Leliana for ‘girl talk’ when Morrigan came crashing through the bushes, terrified. “Arya, come quickly. I think I may have gotten a person trapped inside your…device,” she says, and Arya is bewildered enough to follow her without asking any questions. When they reach the computer, however, all she can see is Ella, bent double and cackling.

            “Morrigan, it’s all right. You haven’t trapped anyone anywhere. This is a form of communication,” she explains, sliding in front of the camera. Ella barely takes any notice of her, she’s still so busy laughing. Morrigan’s eyes narrow, and Arya figures she doesn’t need to be humiliated. She mutes the computer for the time being. When Ella finally calms down, after intense glares from her friend, she unmutes the computer.

            “I thought you said you weren’t going to be able to use it that much, because battery life or whatever. Now you’re letting Morrigan use it?” Ella demands, and Arya rolls her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers.

            “I found out a way to charge it. Electricity magic exists here, remember? And, besides, I was…showing Morrigan something. That’s not important now, though,” Arya answers, and Ella rolls her eyes but relents.

            “Fine. By the way, where are you?” she asks, and Arya is grateful for the distraction. The rest of the camp has begun to gather, by now, with only Cailan having seen this before. He stills seems amazed, which isn’t all that surprising, although it is endearing.

            “Somewhere in between Redcliffe and Lothering. I told them everything I could, and we decided that was best,” she answers. Ella raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment on their choice.

            “So, what’s going on with you?” she asks, and Arya grins, passing the computer off to Cailan. She angles the camera so Ella can still see her, and then she reaches deep inside of her for that primal song and coaxes it out. Light blooms between her fingers, playful tendrils that twine around each other.

            “You’re going to exhaust yourself if you use your…talent for pretty light shows,” Morrigan says, almost fondly. Arya frowns, but retracts the spell gently, letting it curl into her chest softly.

            “You’re a mage!” Ella exclaims, as if that isn’t obvious. Arya grins, and accepting the computer once more. At this point, Eldris has gotten over his wary caution, and moves over to her. He crouches behind Arya, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder.

            “And who’s this?” Ella asks, her head tilting to the side. Arya has nearly frozen at the physical contact. She isn’t uncomfortable by any means- she just hadn’t expected Eldris to be comfortable enough around any of them to do anything like this at all.

            “My name is Eldris, if there are to be introductions. Although it seems like you know most of the others around here in the same way Arya did,” he says, his voice warm and actually polite in her ear.

            “My, my, Eldris, what has gotten into you?” Arya asks, holding her breath in case she offends the man. She feels him shrug behind her.

            “Who knows, _lethallan_?” he says, and she can almost hear the smile in his voice.

            “I’m not gonna complain,” she says, a faint smile on her face. There’s a noise through the computer, one that is very obviously not made by Ella before she swears and pushes the computer aside, standing up. She disappears for a few seconds, then pops back into the frame.

            “I’m gonna have to go. Damn dog. Anyway, love you, Ar, see you later, bye!” she says, ending the call quickly. Arya shuts the computer, and everything is quiet and still for a moment.

            “Well, that was fun!” Leliana says, a cheerful smile on her face. Sten looked ready to disagree, but thankfully he didn’t. That, and their continued proximity to Redcliffe, reminded Arya of an issue rather important to the Qunari. When everyone disperses and Eldris untangles himself from her, she puts the computer away and approaches him.

            Sten is sitting cross-legged in the grass, meticulously cleaning his armor. “Yes?” he says, his tone somewhere between impatience and annoyance. Arya crosses her hands together behind her back, like a soldier giving a report.

            “I know about Asala. I know how you lost your blade, and I know where it can be found again. Or, at least, I know what my visions showed me. It may be in a different location, and if that’s the case I am still more than willing to help you track down your sword. I know what it means to you,” she says, swallowing thickly as Sten regards her carefully.

            “Where is it?” he asks, stilling. She stiffens, glancing down at his hands. Each one is bigger than her entire skull. Sten could do some serious damage if she pissed him off.

            “In Redcliffe. There was a dwarf in my vision who had come into possession of it. I know you that sword is like your soul, made for your hand and your hand alone. I can’t really grasp what exactly it means to you, but I know that it’s beyond important. I’d like to help,” she says, and Sten regards her for a moment longer before nodding once, sharply.

            “Very well. I will speak to the Wardens about this once we reach Redcliffe,” Sten says, clearly dismissing her. She nods, and backs away, joining Eldris at the fire once more. The two of them speak of legends and stories, Eldris speaking of stories about the Creators and Arya telling him about mythology.

            Cailan was assigned first watch that night, and she stayed up, sitting quietly beside him on the computer while they waited for someone to come relieve him. “You know, you don’t need to do this. You’re tired enough as it is in the mornings,” he says. She rubs her eyes, grinning ruefully.

            “Consider it practice,” she says in response. He smiles, ruffling her hair fondly. She leans against him and he wraps an arm around her.

            “You seem more comfortable here, now,” he remarks after a few moments. She glances at him before looking away, rubbing her hands over her arms. The air had gotten a lot chillier once the sun went down.

            “I am, I think. It’s…It still hits me, all of a sudden, sometimes, how this isn’t really my home, and how I’ve lost a lot of things by coming here. But then I think about all things I can gain from being here. Back home I…I honestly probably didn’t have a lot of potential. There weren’t any careers I wanted to go into. But here, I feel useful. Well, moderately. I know I’m holding you guys back by quite a bit, and I know I’m learning almost everything, but I have knowledge. That’s gotta count for something, right?” she says, and suddenly she feels so tired. She’s used to having relatively everything handed to her, and she understands that Cailan and the others have given her so much for free, but she’s had to do so much _more_ since she got here.

            “I think you’re doing great, for what it’s worth. You’re…remarkably well adjusted,” he said, nudging her gently. She snorts, rubbing her eyes with the palm of her hand.

            “I wouldn’t say that. More like ‘doesn’t understand how to feel emotions so I block them out,’” she retorts. Cailan shakes his head, fondly, and the two of them lapse into silence. A few minutes later, Alistair comes to relieve them of their post.

            True enough, Arya is extra angry in the morning about the necessity of consciousness.


	14. gifts and things

They make relatively good time to Redcliffe village, considering that Arya isn’t used to keeping up grueling traveling speeds. The village was bustling with people when they arrived, and there were no signs of a poisoned arl or walking corpses that arrive at night. The guards, however, seem to recognize Alistair, and would have recognized Cailan had he not been wearing a hood that concealed most of his face. As it was, they insisted that the entire party stay at the castle. They ushered them into the guest wing, giving Arya remarkably little time to sight-see, and showed them their rooms. She ended up rooming with Cailan, more out of comfort and convenience than anything. Once everyone had settled in, Alistair and Eldris got whisked away to meet with Arl Eamon, and the rest of them were provided full use of the facilities.

            Arya was torn. On one hand, she wanted to take a bath and soak in it for approximately three years, while washing all the filth off of her. On the other hand, she didn’t have any casual Ferelden clothing. “You could take a bath, wear something of Leliana’s, and then we can go buy you a few dresses?” Cailan suggests. Arya agrees to the idea almost immediately, bounding over to the room Leliana is sharing with Morrigan and asking to borrow clothes. The bard agrees readily enough, a wicked gleam in her eyes that Arya pretends not to notice.

            With her newfound magical abilities, keeping the water hot for a lot longer is a breeze. She soaks for an obscene amount of time, scrubbing until her skin is pink and her scalp tingles. When she returns to her room, running her fingers through her hair to get rid of the tangles, Cailan has cleaned up too. She finds her gaze lingering appreciatively on him for a few moments before she dumps her armor in the corner. “I’ll deal with that later,” she declares, and Cailan grins.

            “Very well. Buuuuut, I should pick out your clothes. You don’t know anything about Ferelden fashions, after all,” he says, a playful glint in his eyes.

            She crosses her arms over her chest. “Cailan, I swear to the gods above, if you make me look like a fool I will castrate you,” she says, and he laughs, slinging an arm around her shoulders. She rolls her eyes, scooping up her coin purse.

            “I know of a good shop. The owner is discreet and the products are finely-made,” he says, and Arya is thankful they won’t have to spend ages looking for a shop. She tucks the coin purse into an internal pocket, and motions for Cailan to lead the way.

            “Redcliffe is so big,” she found herself saying, tucked up against his side as they walked through the village. At the center was a dirty market square, full of haggard people trying to sell their wares and beggars trying to make a living. The houses near the market are squeezed together, and it’s full of people. She’s suddenly glad she’s clinging to Cailan like he is; it’d be easy to get swept away and lost in a crowd like this.

* * *

 

            The tailor he’d mentioned is in the center of the market, tucked into a corner shop. Dirty white paint is flecking off the outside of the building, but the inside is bright and warm and cozy. Shelves line the walls, stacked full of bolts of fabric, and there’s a curtained off area behind the counter. The tailor, or whom Arya assumes is the tailor, is an old woman, sitting on a stool at the counter and writing something in a journal. She looks up when they enter, smiling kindly. “How may I help you today?” she asks, laying the quill down neatly next to the journal.

            “My friend here would like some clothes. Two dresses suitable to wear at court, two casual dresses, and a set of traveling clothes, if you’ve got it,” Cailan answers, his tone polite. The woman slides off the stool and comes around the counter.

            “Well, girl, let me look at you,” she says, and Cailan nudges Arya forward. Arya stands there, nervously, as the woman moves around her, reaching out and plucking at Leliana’s shirt.

            “That shirt there’s a bit too small, but I think I happen to have two court dresses in the back that should work with some minor adjustments. Is color or style an issue?” she asks. Arya glances back to Cailan, fidgeting with the necklace she wore.

            “No, not particularly. She is meeting with the arl tonight, so something fitting for that occasion is the only specification,” Cailan answers, and then the woman ducks back behind the counter and returns with a tape measure, a charcoal pencil, and a few pins. She ducks behind the curtained area and returns with four dresses to pick from, all of them silky and far fancier than anything Arya thought she would wear. One of them is a dark red, one a light purple, the other a deep blue, and the last one a pale green.

            “These are the court dresses. Would you like to step behind the curtain to try them on? Or maybe send your friend outside?” the seamstress asks. Arya looks at Cailan. She doesn’t want to send him out, in case the lady asks her more questions she can’t answer, but she doesn’t necessarily want him to see her naked.

            “He can stay, if he turns his back,” she says, finally, and Cailan smirks as he turns around.

            “Very well. Please undress,” the woman says, kindly, and Arya deposits her coin purse in Cailan’s lap before shucking out of the rest of her clothes. While she does that, the woman locks the door.

            They start with the red dress. It fits her well, with the collar needed slight adjustments to keep from revealing too much. The green one is much too big, and it would take so many adjustments to get it to fit that it would almost be easier to make a completely new dress. The purple one fits, but the neckline is too low for comfort due to the style, and the blue one just needs to be hemmed. Without much issue, she settles on the red one and the blue one, and then the woman brings out several, much more casual dresses. These are made from cotton and wool, and the fabric is heavier and more durable.

* * *

 

            By the time Arya leaves the shop, she has a dark grey cotton gown and a dark green wool gown, as well as the two she can wear in court. The woman has also taken her measurements, and had set about making two sets of traveling clothes. Arya was insistent on paying her in advance, and the total came out to a whooping six soverigns. She winces inwardly, but pays the fee with a smile, and leaves the shop in her new cotton dress.

            “That looks good on you,” Cailan comments, once they’re out of the shop. Arya shifts the clothes she has on her arm and looks up at him.

            “Thank you, my good sir,” she says, a smile playing across the corners of her mouth. Cailan wraps one arm around her waist, pulling her closer so they won’t get separated.

            “Would you like to see the rest of the markets before heading out?” he asks. She nods, and so they walk among the winding kiosks. Arya buys a delicate silver necklace, something that’ll go much better with her new clothes than the pentagram currently around her neck, and she buys a hair pin. She sees a silver bracelet that she buys for Morrigan, and a Chantry amulet that she buys for Leliana. She also purchases a small painting for Sten. She searches for something for Alistair and Eldris, but is unable to find anything she thinks either of them will like, and she’s not going to buy Cailan something while he hovers over her shoulder. By the time she returns to her room, squirreling away her new outfits, she has a total of three silvers and thirty coppers left.

            “You shouldn’t have spent so much,” Cailan scolds. She shrugs, picking out the gifts she’d purchased and laying them out on the bed, separate from everything else.

            “Perhaps not, but most of this isn’t for me. Speaking of, I’m gonna go see if I can find everyone else and give them their gifts,” she says. He nods, stretching out on the bed. She gathers the gifts up in her arms and exits her room, looking around.

* * *

 

            Leliana isn’t in the room she shares with Morrigan, but the witch is. Arya deposits the clothes she’d borrowed onto the table, and approaches the dark-haired woman. “I have something for you,” she says, holding out the bracelet. Morrigan eyes it, and her, with suspicion.

            “What is this?” she asks. Arya grins.

            “It’s a bracelet. Surely you’ve seen them before,” she says, and Morrigan frowns.

            “I know what it is. Why are you giving it to me? What do you want in return?” she asks, and something twists, sharp and painful, in Arya’s chest.

            “I saw it, and I thought you might like it. I don’t want anything in return,” she answers, sitting down beside the other woman on the bed, still holding the bracelet towards her. Morrigan accepts it, cautiously, fastening it around her wrist.

            “Are you….sure?” she asks, uncertainly. Arya nods, a soft and gentle smile on her face, and something new and guarded flits across Morrigan’s face before she hides it with her usual cool mask.

            “Then you have my thanks, and more, if you want it,” the witch breathes, and there is something sacred between them in that moment. Arya almost asks what she means, but she’s interrupted by Leliana walking through the door,

             “Arya! You have returned!” she says, cheerfully. Arya stands, returning the hug she knew was inevitable.

            “I have! And I’ve got you something,” she says, offering Leliana the Chantry amulet. She’d worried that Leliana already had one, but she’d rather give her a gift she already had than leave the bard out.

            “Oh! How dear of you!” Leliana says, fastening it around her neck immediately. She rubs her fingers over the steel surface, looking genuinely delighted. Morrigan still looks baffled by her own gift.

            “You’re welcome. Do you know where the Sten is, by any chance?” she asks, and Leliana shakes her head.

            “No, last I saw him, he was headed into the village. He may have returned by now, but if he isn’t in his room, then I don’t know where he will be,” she answers. Arya thanks her for the information, gives the bard another hug, and dashes out of the door.

* * *

 

            Sten’s room is situated at the end of the hall. The door is shut, although when she knocks there is only a brief moment before the qunari’s rumbling voice bids her to enter. Sten is sitting cross-legged on the floor, almost like he was meditating before she interrupted.

            “Yes?” he asks, almost impatiently.

            “I brought you a gift. I remembered, in my visions, you liked paintings and that sort of thing, and, well, this one is small enough that you can carry it around with you. I thought it was pretty,” she said, and holds it out to him. It’s a simple painting of a sunset bleeding into the ocean, and it was masterfully done. Sten’s face remains as passive as ever, but there is something glittering in his eyes now.

            “You have my thanks. I have spoken to the villagers about Asala, as well. The dwarf who has it is supposed to bring it to the castle later,” he says, and Arya’s smile brightens.

            “I’m glad you found it, Sten,” she says.

            “As am I,” the qunari replies, and when it is clear that he’s done talking, Arya leaves the room, shutting the door softly behind her.


	15. the sharpest lives are the deadliest to lead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some non-descriptive, mild smut ahead. I am, apparently, still horrendously embarrassed when it comes to writing smut.

            Leliana insisted on doing Arya’s makeup before supper. It was supposedly some grand affair, dining with the arl, and Leliana wanted Arya to look her best. So she laced her into the red dress and did some dramatic, dark makeup that made Arya marvel at her skills. Cailan escorted her to the dining hall, and apparently Eldris or Alistair or someone had briefed Arl Eamon on the situation, because he didn’t seem too surprised to see Cailan. He insisted that Cailan sit next to him, and Alistair on the other side, and Arya was shuffled down to the end of the table, across from Leliana and beside Morrigan.

            The food itself was only slightly better than what she’d come to expect in Fereldan. Everything was rather bland, and the only thing she really enjoyed was the bread. She suffered through as much as she was able before she pushed her plate away, and a few minutes later, Morrigan leaned over. “Shall we return to our rooms?” the witch asked, and Arya was so desperate to get out of the situation that she didn’t notice the undercurrent in the witch’s tone.

            “Yes, please,” she whispered, and Morrigan stood and led Arya out of the dining room, through the corridors. They entered Morrigan’s room, the witch shutting the door behind them before turning to Arya, a glint of something dark in her eyes as she stepped closer. Arya watched her, warily, her back against the wall.

            “’Tis cold in my room, all alone,” the witch all but purred, and Arya’s eyes narrowed sharply.

            “Are you trying to seduce me?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. Morrigan sighed and stepped back, running a hand through her hair.

            “I was trying to be more subtle about it, but yes,” she admitted, and Arya shook her head slightly.

            “You’re not doing this as a way to pay me back for the gift I gave you, are you?” she asked, and Morrigan laughed. It was too high-pitched, too nervous, and utterly devoid of humor.

            “No. I…You know my goals, here, traveling with the Wardens. I must admit that I’m not fond of the idea of conceiving the first time I ever…enjoy myself,” the witch admits, bracing herself against the table. Arya is stunned, and speechless for a few moments.

            “I…I can’t say I blame you, for that, really. We should talk before we do this, though. I don’t want to do anything you’re uncomfortable with, and I don’t want to expect things from you,” she replies, finally, and Morrigan turns back to face her, looking so utterly vulnerable in that moment.

            “You said you know me through your game. Surely you know my ideas on romance and love,” she said, scorn dripping from her voice. Arya sighs, and almost rubs her eyes with her palm. She remembers her makeup last minute and stops herself, however.

            “Yes, Morrigan, I know your views. I also know that, should the player decide to romance you, you fall head over heels in love and it scares the absolute shit out of you. I want you to decide our relationship, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to do something, and I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” she said, moving to stand next to Morrigan. She lets her hand rest gently on her exposed back, and she feels Morrigan let out a deep sigh.

            “I do not know if it’ll be a one-time thing, Arya. And believe me, I’m not going to do anything I’m not comfortable with. I just wanted to try it with someone I trusted,” she says, turning to face Arya suddenly. They’re so close that Arya can feel Morrigan’s breath skating across her skin, and she shivers.

            “Okay. We’ll try this, take it slow,” Arya says, after a few heartbeats, and then Morrigan surges forward, pressing her lips against Arya’s. Arya is admittedly surprised by the intensity, her hands coming up to rest awkwardly on Morrigan’s hips. When the other woman breaks the kiss, Arya starts pressing small, soft kisses down her jawline, leaving faint pink smudges from her lipstick. When Arya reaches her neck, Morrigan lets out a soft gasp, and her hands move up to tangle in Arya’s hair, tugging it out of the up-do that Leliana had spent so much time on.

            Arya comes back up, a grin on her face as she kisses Morrigan again, and lets out a soft chuckle when she feels Morrigan unlacing the back of her dress. Admittedly, she herself has no idea how Morrigan’s top works, but with a little fumbling and a lot of good luck, she manages to get the damn thing to fall off. Morrigan pauses, something flashing in her eyes before she pushes Arya’s dress off of her shoulders, letting it crumple into the floor. Arya’s hands come up to cup Morrigan’s breasts, rubbing a thumb over her nipples. The witch leans into the touch, sighing.

            “I don’t mean to rush this, but the others will be back soon. Perhaps we should hurry it along?” Morrigan suggests, after a few minutes of light touching and kissing, where all they’ve managed to do is get naked in front of each other. Arya grins, shrugs and then gently pushes Morrigan onto the bed. She lands on her back; props herself up on her elbows. She watches through heavily-lidded eyes as Arya crawls after her, pressing kisses on her stomach and her thighs. Her breath hitches in her throat and Arya pauses, hovering, looking up at Morrigan.

            Morrigan nods, and Arya smirks. When her tongue meets Morrigan’s skin, soft and wet and flushed with desire, her hips lift up into the air and a groan escapes her lips. Arya giggles, but doesn’t stop, and it’s not long until Morrigan’s hand tangles in her hair. Arya presses one finger inside, and then another, and Morrigan’s breath is coming out in sharp, short pants. Arya thinks about stopping, drawing the experience out, but the noises coming out of Morrigan’s mouth and the scrape of her fingernails against her scalp is too sweet to pass up, so she keeps going until Morrigan shudders through her release, letting out a soft keen. She presses a couple more kisses to Morrigan’s thighs and stomach before the woman’s fingers slip out of her hair, and Arya climbs back up, laying down on her back next to Morrigan.

            To her surprise, Morrigan rolls over and curls herself around Arya, tucking her head underneath Arya’s chin. Arya doesn’t say anything, curling into the embrace and stroking Morrigan’s arm gently. They stay like that for a while, until long after their breathing has returned to normal. “I suppose you should return to your quarters before everyone else returns,” Morrigan says eventually, sitting up slowly. Arya sits up as well, swinging her legs off the side of the bed.

            “Most likely,” she agrees, assessing the other woman for signs of distress. Morrigan is, of course, guarded like usual, so Arya is unable to detect anything until she reaches out, laying a soft hand on Arya’s shoulder.

            “Thank you,” she murmurs, and Arya just nods as she gets up and pulls her dress on. She was tempted to dash across the hall without it, but she’d rather not risk someone catching her naked, so with a heavy sigh she goes about getting dressed. Morrigan is there, suddenly, her nimble fingers doing up the lacing on the back of the dress easily. Arya flashes her a grin over her shoulder, and she rolls her eyes, smiling almost fondly. Once Arya is dressed, she heads across the hall to her own room, which is blessedly empty for the time. She sits on the edge of the bed.

            It takes her a moment for the entire reality of what just happened to hit her. When Cailan comes slinking in, smelling like a brewery, the others departing into their own rooms (loudly) as well, she still hardly believes it. She has, at least, managed to get ready for bed, which mostly consisted of putting on fresh underwear and the tank-top she’d arrived in and removing her makeup. “You have a fun night?” Cailan asks, coming up behind her and draping himself across her in a hug. She laughs, nudging him farther from the edge of the bed.

            “You’re drunk,” she says, and he laughs in her ear.

            “Of course!” he responds, and then he lets go of her, flopping backwards onto the bed, a dopey grin on his face.

            “I take it supper was much more thrilling for you than it was for me,” she remarks dryly, and he reaches up and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear.

            “You didn’t enjoy it?” he asks. She shakes her head lightly, a soft smile turning the corner of her lips upwards.

            “Not particularly. The food wasn’t something I enjoyed, and my two biggest friends were sitting at the opposite end of the table. Morrigan’s great, but not the best for dinner conversation,” Arya says, and Cailan’s face falls melodramatically before brightening.

            “What kinds of food do you like? We can go make some, right now. I remember where the kitchens are!” he says, and Arya shakes her head fondly.

            “Not right now. Maybe sometime tomorrow?” she says, and he nods, rolling over suddenly and burying his face in the pillow. It isn’t long before he starts snoring.

            She feels far from tired herself, so after a few moments she stands, pulling on one of Cailan’s shirts over her tank-top, and opens the door. The hallway is deserted, and she has no idea about the layout of the castle, but she starts walking anyway. Eventually, she ends up at a door that leads onto a balcony, and she steps outside into the cold night air. Her breath fogs in the air, and a few seconds pass before she realizes she’s not alone.

            She doesn’t recognize this man as they stare at each other, but something about him looks familiar. “I’m sorry- I…I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d try to get some air. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she says, suddenly, after a few seconds. The man smiles tiredly at her, looking ragged.

            “It’s quite all right. My name is Jowan. Who are you?” he asks, and Arya steps forward before she can stop herself, shutting the door behind her quietly.

            “My name is Arya. Are you…I’m sorry, by any chance are you the Jowan from the Circle Tower?” she asks, and he tenses.

            “How do you know about that? Are you a Templar?” he hisses, backing away. She raises her hands up in a placating gesture, shaking her head furiously.

            “No! I’m a mage too, dammit. I just…You’re here to poison the arl, aren’t you?” she asks, and Jowan’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

            “How did you know about that?” he demands. She shifts from one foot to the other, wishing desperately that the stone under her feet wasn’t so bitingly cold, or that she’d thought to put on shoes. Or, hell, at the very least, socks.

            “I’m a seer,” she says flatly, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s suddenly very conscious of how little she’s actually wearing, and she shivers.

            “…Are you going to tell anyone?” he asks, and she scoffs.

            “Are you shitting me, kid? I’m going to try to talk some sense into your damn head, and if that doesn’t work, I’m going to kick ten different kinds of shit out of your ass,” she said, dragging her fingers through her hair.

            “I don’t have much of a choice, do I? I’m a maleficar, and if they catch me they’ll make me Tranquil for sure. Arl Howe is offering me protection if I agree to do this,” he hisses, and she steps forward, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

            “You always have a choice. Always,” she says, and there is a ghost lingering in her eyes and in her clenched fists, and Jowan turns away from her, bracing himself against the railing on the balcony, his head hanging down.

            “What else am I supposed to do?” he asks, and she sighs, stepping forward to stand next to him.

            “Well, I’m traveling with the Grey Wardens. I could talk to Eldris and Alistair, see if they’d recruit you. Maybe leave out the maleficar bit- Alistair was a Templar and I don’t think that would go over too well,” she suggests, looking at Jowan out of the corner of her eye. The man looks so tired.

            “I just wanted to live a normal life. Fall in love, get married, have kids,” he says, his voice cracking. Arya lays a hand on his shoulder.

            “I know. It’s not fair, and it’s completely fucked up, but this is what you’ve got to work with, kid,” she says, sadly, and Jowan drags his hand over his face before straightening, turning to face her. There’s a fire in his eyes now, hard determination.

            “Talk to your Wardens, then,” he says, before walking off, new determination in his steps. It’s a while longer before Arya retreats inside, managing by some stroke of sheer, dumb luck to make it back to her room. When she slips into the bed, Cailan reaches out in his sleep, pulling her close. She lays awake for a long while yet before she passes into a deep sleep.


	16. the past does(n't) define us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning for referenced domestic abuse that occurred between Arya's mother and Arya's father. Also, Arl Eamon is an asshole. Sorry not sorry about that second one.

            _She is a child again, and her mother is crouching in front of her, her eyes wild and angry, her face stained with tears. “No matter what, Arya, you always have a choice. Your life is your own,” she says, desperately and fiercely. Arya is too young to understand what her mother means, too young to understand why the bruises blossoming underneath her mother’s eye come from her father. Her mother stands, moving around frantically after this, piling both her clothes and Arya’s into a suitcase haphazardly. Her father beats on the door from the other side, and her mother stalks over to the drawers, pulling out a pistol. She shoves Arya behind her, and when her father breaks through the door, he is met with a gun in his face._

_“Get the fuck away from me,” her mother snarled. Her father laughed, and her mother’s hand doesn’t shake as she clicks the safety off._

_“What are you going to do, you old bitch? You don’t have it in me to shoot you,” her father laughs, and Arya doesn’t understand that the stench rolling off of him is akin to that of a brewery._

_“Don’t you dare touch me or my daughter ever again, you son of a bitch,” her mother snarls, and her hand is still steady. Her father eyes her warily for a few moments._

_“Fine. You have two hours to get the fuck out of my house,” her father says, turning to walk out of the door. Once he is gone, her mother flicks the safety back on but shoves the gun into the waistline of her jeans._

* * *

 

            Arya wakes up, tears in her eyes, long before anyone else does. She throws the covers off, eases out of Cailan’s grip, and goes to stand by the window, wiping at her eyes. She doesn’t hear Cailan wake up behind her, and she startles when she feels his hand on her shoulder, jerking away from the contact on instinct. Cailan lets go immediately.

            “Arya, what’s wrong?” he asks, and she shakes her head, rubbing desperately at her eyes.

            “I just…had a nightmare. I didn’t mean to wake you or worry you,” she says, and when he reaches out this time and cups her face, she leans into the contact. He wipes her tears away with his thumb and urges her closer gently, wrapping his arms around her. She sighs, burying her face in his chest.   

            “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. She shakes her head.

            “Not right now. Can we just…Can we go back to bed?” she asks, and she knows she won’t sleep, but he must be tired and hungover, and she doesn’t want him fussing over her. He nods, leading her back to the bed. She curls up against him, and she stays like that until his breathing slows and steadies, signaling his venture into unconsciousness again. She feels restless, all of a sudden, so she slips out of his grasp and pulls on her jeans, slipping her feet quietly into her boots. She scribbles a quick note to him, leaving it on her pillow, and slips out into the hallway.

            She wanders through the castle until she runs, quite literally, into Alistair. “Oh, shit. Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” she said, reaching out to grab him as he stumbles.

            “It’s all right, Arya. I was just on the way to the meeting with Eamon,” he says, grinning easily at her.

            “What meeting?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.

            “Didn’t anyone tell you? We’re supposed to meet with Eamon over an informal breakfast and figure out what to do next,” he says, and she shakes her head, her arms wrapping around her stomach.

            “No, no one told me,” she says, and Alistair frowns.

            “Well, I’ll escort you back to your room and you can get dressed and we’ll go together,” he says, linking his arm through hers. She smiles.

            “You are entirely too good for this world, my friend,” she said, and the tips of his ears turn pink. She giggles, but otherwise they lapse into a companionable silence as they navigate the castle.

* * *

            The meeting, it turns out, is incredibly dull and boring. Arl Eamon automatically ignores any of her suggestions, even when the others agree with them, and she thinks about storming out halfway through. Instead, she decides to confront the arl. He was a piece of shit anyway.

            “What the fuck is your problem with me?” she asked, interrupting him mid-way through a sentence. Eldris reached over and laced his fingers through hers, squeezing gently.

            “I’m sorry, what?” the arl asked, probably shocked about the delicate lady using such indelicate language.

            “What’s your problem with me? Every idea I’ve given has been shot down, even when the majority of the group agrees with me. So what’s your problem?” she asks, again, and she thinks of her mother again.

            “I don’t have a problem with you, girl, you’re just inexperienced,” Eamon says, and Arya wants to hit him so hard he sees stars.

            “Be that as it may, some of my ideas were obviously good ones. Why are you even here, anyway? We only need you for support at the capital in case someone tries to dispute Cailan’s claim to the throne, which is a ridiculous notion anyway,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him defiantly.

            “I beg your pardon, do you realize who you’re speaking to?” he asked, and Arya wanted to scream.

            “Uncle, she has a point,” Cailan says, stepping forward. Eamon looks like they just offended his great ancestors, and Arya has to hold back a laugh.

            “Let’s not forget that Alistair and I have final say over any decision made. I think it would be easier to do as Arya suggested, and go around Lake Calenhad, stopping at the Circle of Magi, before continuing to Denerim. Otherwise, we’ll have to backtrack and return to the Circle anyway,” Eldris says. Arl Eamon crosses his arms over his chest defensively.          

            “And you have experience with traveling?” he asks. Eldris snorts.

            “It’s almost like I didn’t spend my entire life running from shemlen who want to slaughter me for sport,” he replies, cold anger seeping into his tone. Arya reaches out, lays her hand on his shoulder. She can feel how tense he is, but her touch seems to ground him a little.

            “Do whatever you wish. I am, after all, just here for support,” Eamon says, and Arya entertains herself during the detailed planning by thinking of all the ways she could brutally murder the aging arl. Perhaps she should have let Jowan poison him, even though that would just cause complications in the end.

* * *

            Eventually, it’s decided that they’ll leave in three days, Jowan in tow. Arya is relieved to get out of the study, and away from Eamon. She practically flees to the room she shares with Cailan, nearly locking herself in out of habit. If Cailan hadn’t been on her heels, she probably would have. As it is, she almost doesn’t notice Leliana and Alistair disappearing into the courtyard together. Almost. She’ll have to talk to the bard about that later.

            “I’m sorry he thought it was okay to talk to you like that,” Cailan says, after a moment of silence where neither of them knew what to say. Arya shrugs, reaching up to rub the back of her neck.

            “It’s fine. Can I expect the same sort of welcome in Denerim, though?” she asks, and there is a vicious sort of thing that curls under her chest.

            “I doubt it. Anora is far too polite, and Loghain minces his words less than Eamon. I doubt you’ll have much of a problem,” he says, his hands settling reassuringly on her shoulders.

            “Tell me about Anora,” she says, curling up on the edge of the bed. Cailan, looking moderately surprised, sits down next to her.

            “My marriage to her isn’t the happiest one, even among nobility,” he says, eventually, and she cocks her head to the side, reaching out to put a comforting hand on his knee.

            “Why is that?” she asks, and she hopes she’s not pushing him to answer questions he doesn’t want to ask.

            “Anora and I were good friends before the marriage. Once we were married, once we started trying to rule a country together, our disagreements became more vocal and more frequent. And they were about more important things, too, like what new policies to implement and how, or what judgements to deliver. And, for no lack of trying, Anora isn’t producing any heirs. It’s....put a severe strain on any friendship we had prior to our marriage,” he says, and Arya leans over, nestling her head on his shoulder.

            “I’m sorry. Is there anything you can do about it, or is it just stuck like this? A king can’t rule when he’s competing with his queen, and a queen can’t rule when she’s competing with the king,” she points out. Cailan’s frown deepens.

            “I know. I was corresponding with Empress Celene, and there was a point where I considered leaving Anora. I could make her a teryna, and maybe both of us would be happier that way. Not to mention how a marriage between myself and Celene would benefit both Ferelden and Orlais,” he says, and there is something almost wistful in his tone.

            “Was?” she asks, gently prodding for answers. He sighs, and lays down, his hands clasped over his stomach.

            “Loghain doesn’t want that, at all. He hates Orlais, and I think that hatred blinds him sometimes. I couldn’t make Anora a teryna in good conscience either. She loves this country, and she wants to make it better. I respect and admire her for that. Fereldan might even need her more than me,” he murmurs.

            Arya lays down next to him, sprawled out on her back. Cailan reaches out, links his fingers through hers. “Any other ideas for how to fix this mess of things?” she asks, turning her head to look at him. He meets her gaze, looking intensely troubled.

            “Nothing that would work. Arl Eamon is pushing for me to take a mistress, since Anora isn’t bearing any heirs, and while I’m not entirely opposed to the idea, I don’t want some woman whose only purpose is to bear a child,” he says. She squeezes his hand reassuringly.

            “If I could meet Anora, talk to her, maybe we could all get something worked out?” she suggests. She doesn’t know how she’d manage to help, and gods above, was she really going to play marriage counselor?

            A teasing grin flitted onto Cailan’s face. “Are you quite sure you wouldn’t try to steal my wife from me?” he asks, a playful lilt to his tone.

            “Why would I?” she asks, confused.

            “I know about you and the apostate,” Cailan says, and Arya rolled her eyes at the smugness in his expression.

            “Morrigan and I are just friends, who occasionally have sex, because she trusts me,” she says, and Cailan looks appropriately skeptical.

            “You tell yourself whatever you want to make yourself feel better, sweetheart,” he says, and she rolls her eyes.

            “I don’t need to make myself feel better about anything, thank you very much. Morrigan just wanted her first time to be with someone who had her best interests in mind,” she says, and Cailan squeezes her hand gently.

            “So there’s nothing romantic between the two of you?” he asks. Arya shakes her head.

            “None whatsoever,” she answers.

            “So you might steal my wife after all!” Cailan says, and Arya laughs, punching his arm playfully.

            “Hey now, I might end up with Eldris before this is all over with. He’s just so charming,” she says, and Cailan laughs too.

            “Does that mean you like men and women?” he asks, after they settle down. His thumb traces nonsensical patterns against her wrist.

            “It does. I’m bisexual,” she confirms. There is a moment of silence between them before Cailan rolls onto his side to face her, a shit-eating grin on his face.

            “Would you be interested in the position of royal mistress?” he asks, and Arya chokes while Cailan laughs.

            “You are such an asshole,” she says, once she regains her ability to speak. He laughs all the harder.

* * *

            That night, she dreams of her mother again, and this time the memory is even less pleasant. Her sleep is restless.


	17. friends in odd places

            Before leaving Redcliffe, Morrigan insisted that they purchase a staff for Arya. It’s awkward and fumbling, and Arya isn’t entirely sure how to use it, but it does help her coax the song out from that deep place inside of her. Morrigan also teaches Arya a barrier spell before they leave, in case of any emergencies where Morrigan can’t raise one. Bright and early, before dawn, everyone gathers in the dining hall. A quick breakfast has been prepared for them, and they spend a half hour eating before setting out, towards Kinloch Hold. It would take them nine days to reach the docks.

            On the fifth day, just after stopping for a quick lunch, a disheveled woman approaches them. “Oh, thank the Maker! We need help, please, they’re attacking the wagon! Oh, please help us,” she says, and her eyes are round and wide and pleading. Eldris and Arya share a look, Arya nodding subtly before stepping forward.

            “Oh, you poor thing! Lead the way, and we’ll do our best to help you,” she says, her voice sugary sweet. She shifts her grip on her staff, a smile working its way onto her face. This was most likely the ambush from Zevran, so they follow the woman, Arya in the front for a change.

            They come out into a clearing about five minutes later. The wagon is indeed there, turned on its side, it’s previous contents scattered everywhere. The tree that Arya remembers falling in-game is leaning ominously forward, taking out any doubts she might have had. She raises her hand, stopping her companions, and she can’t get her grin off of her face.

            “Oh, my, wouldn’t it be such a shame is this was an ambush?” she says, loudly. Eldris’ eyes scan the surrounding area warily. She wonders how many assassins there are in hiding, but her attention is drawn back to the scene at hand when something, no, someone beside the wagon twitches and gets up. She raises her hand in a mock-friendly greeting. The woman stops, turning back to look at her. She plays her part well, confusion coloring her face.

            “You wouldn’t happen to be the wonderful Zevran Arainai, member of the Antivian Crows, sent here to kill Wardens for holding King Cailan hostage, would you?” she calls out, cheerfully, but her grip on her staff tightens and she shifts on the balls of her feet, ready for an attack.

            The someone gets closer, and she can tell that it is indeed Zevran. He crosses about half of the distance between them before stopping. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage, my friend. Are you one of the Wardens?” he asks, and his voice does funny things to Arya’s insides.

            “I am not. Two of my traveling companions are, though. I’m Arya Huskins,” she says, and the tension in the air was so thick that she could have cut it with a knife.

            “Well, all this is well and good, Arya, but where does that leave us?” Zevran asks. She shifts again, doing her best to appear open and unthreatening.

            “King Cailan was never kidnapped. In fact, he’s right here, and very willingly at that. I’m a seer, long story short, and you have a very important part to play in the upcoming events. So, if you want to come closer so I don’t have to yell, I think I have a very attractive option for a man in your standing,” she says, and even from so far away she can see the hesitation flitting across Zevran’s face.

            “Well, surely one as attractive as you could come up with some decent offers. Let’s see what they are, no?” he says, finally, stepping forward. As if drawn by magnets, everyone’s hands snap to their weapons. She shoots a glare at them over her shoulder, but quickly turns her attention back to the assassin, moving forward to meet him partway.

            “So, what is this you wanted to offer me?” he asks, and he does a good job at looking bored. There’s an undercurrent there of something else. She shifts her sweat-slick grip on her staff once more.

            “I know you never chose to join the Crows. I know you expected this job to be your last. Come with us,” she says. Zevran’s eyebrows slant downwards in surprise, but he recovers quickly from the display of emotion.

            “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” he asks, and Arya’s face grows flinty.

            “You always have a choice. Even if neither option is particularly good, you always have a choice,” she says, and there is something hard and heavy in her voice. Zevran looks back at the other side of the clearing, where more assassins must be waiting for some sort of signal.

            “They would be a problem,” he says, quietly, and the clearing is completely still in that moment.

            “We’re very talented. And we’ll provide protection from the Crows, should they come after you,” she answers, and then a woman steps out of the brush, an arrow pointed at Zevran’s heart.

            “Zevran, you can’t do this,” she says, and Arya looks at Zevran. If the assassin decided to stay with the Crows, she wouldn’t have the time to pull up a barrier. He looks back at her, and she can see something harden in his eyes. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and Arya grins.

            “Oh, but he can,” she says, and then she flings a shard of ice at the woman. It sinks into her chest, blood bubbling up bright and hot. The woman’s mouth moves into an o shape, and then she collapses. Zevran pushes Arya to the side, and the fight bursts out around them. Arya throws up her barrier, and the sharp, sudden decrease in her mana is enough to make her dizzy.

            She surveys the battlefield, feeling more mana trickle in even despite the strain of holding up the barrier. She notices an assassin trying to sneak up on Eldris, who’s busy with two other opponents. With a deep breath and a vague prayer to the havens, she sends another spike of ice into the fray. The man falls, and once Eldris has dispatched his two victims, he stops for a moment to take a breath and flash Arya a grin.

            The fight is over almost before it begins, and the battlefield is suddenly still and calm. Zevran limps towards Arya, his hand pressed to a wound in his side. “I suppose that decision was made,” he says, rather cheerfully. She rushes forward, letting the barrier fall, and he slips his arm around her shoulders, letting her take some of the weight.

            “We need to get away from here, set up a camp,” Eldris says, wiping sweat and blood from his face. Arya shifts her grip on Zevran, passing her staff off to Cailan.

            “Everyone all right?” Alistair asks, as the procession starts moving forward. For the most part, they are. Zevran’s side, of course, is presenting problems, and Eldris has a gash on his forearm. The others only had superficial, surface wounds. Arya and Morrigan are the only ones completely unscathed, thanks to their barriers.

            It isn’t long until they find a campsite, and once they do, Arya deposits Zevran in the grass, at the base of a tree. “Take off your armor,” she says, and he flashes a smirk up at her.

            “My dear, you could at least wait until I am no longer filthy and covered in blood,” he says, and she laughs.

            “Honey, that’s what I was going to try and fix,” she says, and Morrigan comes over, a pot filled with water. She leaves it next to Arya wordlessly and moves on to heal Eldris. The others have begun setting up tents, and so Arya rolls her sleeves up and pulls some cloth out of her pack.

            She assists Zevran as best as she can with the removal of his armor, but she fears she ends up hindering more than helping. When it’s finally in a pile in the ground, she dunks the cloth into the water and does her best to get most of the blood off, focusing on the wound.

            It isn’t a serious wound, all things considered, so once she deems it sufficiently clean she focuses, and lets a wave of healing magic wash over him. Zevran shifts, leaning back. “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at magic yet,” Arya apologizes, and her mana has ran out all too soon. The wound hasn’t even fully closed, but she reaches into her pack for a lyrium potion. It tastes like piss, but it floods her with mana, energizing her almost worryingly. She goes back to healing, letting more magic wash over Zevran, her brow furrowed.

            Eventually, the job is done. “You have my thanks,” the assassin murmurs, pale and sweaty.

            “I’m not done yet. You’re still filthy,” she says. She does take a moment to glance over her shoulder. The rest of the camp is coming together, tents set up and a fire going. Leliana is bent over a pot, stirring what’s probably going to be their supper.

            “I can take it from here,” Zevran says, but Arya shakes her head stubbornly, dabbing the blood off. He leans his head back, closing his eyes as she works.

            “It has been a long time since a lovely woman such as yourself has pampered me so,” he says, after a few minutes of silence pass, a crooked grin on his face.

            “Well, flattery will get you everywhere,” she says, an easy smile on her face. He laughs, and soon she finishes, sending him on his way. She returns to her tent, where Cailan is, his shirt off as he dabs ointment on some of the minor scrapes he’d gotten.

            “Need any help with that?” she asks. He starts, looking up at her sharply.

            “Arya, you scared me,” he acknowledges. She grins, stepping further into the tent and peeling herself out of her armor.

            “I try,” she says, letting the various pieces thunk to the ground.

            “You did well today,” Cailan says, softly. She pauses, her hands on a buckle, and glances over at him.

            “Thank you. I…I wasn’t sure what I was doing at all. It was a gamble,” she admits. Slowly, she continues, her fingers working the buckle loose and moving on to the next one.

            “You’re either better than you give yourself credit for, or very lucky,” Cailan says, and there is something odd swelling in her chest, pressed against her ribcage.

            “I seem to be very lucky indeed,” she agrees, softly, and then she is finally finished removing her armor. She feels oddly exposed, all of a sudden, until Cailan tosses her one of his shirts. She pulls it over her head, letting it settle around her.

            “That you are,” Cailan says, and Arya grins before ducking out of the tent once more.

            “I’m going to go talk to Morrigan,” she says, letting the tent swish shut behind her.

            “Yeah, I’m sure all you’re going to do is talk,” he calls after her, teasingly, and she can’t stop herself from laughing.

* * *

           Zevran stops her before she reaches Morrigan, gesturing for her to sit down next to him. He’s quite a bit away from the others, propped up against a different tree with two bowls of stew. He must have expected her to come by. So she sits, settling down, her back against the tree and her shoulder rubbing against Zevran’s. He passes her the second bowl of stew. She doesn’t know what’s in it, but her stomach clenches uncomfortably with hunger, so she eats.

            “I never meant to force your hand, Zevran, but I’m glad you joined us,” she says, eventually, glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes.

            “My dear, you didn’t force anything, least of all my hand. I wanted to thank you for giving me the chance,” he says, and there is something almost vulnerable in his voice.

            “I know a little of your history with the Crows. I know they bought you when you were a child. I don’t think anyone deserves to have choices made for them,” she says, and Zevran lays a hesitant hand on her knee.

            “I am sensing a story behind those words, my friend, especially as often as you say them,” he says, and she frowns.

            “It’s the only lesson my mother ever bothered to teach me,” she says, and there is something equally vulnerable in her voice. 

            “What was your mother like? Since you seem to know about my past, it is only fair,” he asks, tentatively, and Arya realizes this is the first time anyone in Thedas has ever bothered asking her about her family members.

            “She was…she was angry. And I think she tried. Just not hard enough,” she says, biting her lip.

            “Oh?” Zevran says, and his hand on her knee squeezes gently.

            “When I was four years old, my father hit her one too many times. She started packing all of our things. He came into the bedroom, like he was going to hit her again, and she pulled a gun on him. He let us leave after that. Being a single mother, and a victim of abuse herself, it definitely wasn’t easy for her. That doesn’t excuse the fact that she was a shitty mother,” she says, and her voice shakes.

            “I’d toast our terrible childhoods, but neither of us has a drink, so there goes that idea,” he says, and Arya grins despite herself.

            “From what I remember, your childhood was much more terrible than mine,” she says. Zevran shrugs.

            “I’ve made peace with mine, and, really, it wasn’t so terrible in the Crows,” he replies.

            “Maybe we both just have really skewed perceptions on what a normal childhood should be,” she says, and there’s a gleam in his eyes.

            “That’s probably it,” he agrees.

* * *

 

            She finally joins Morrigan just as the witches finishes pitching her tent. She looks up at Arya, nodding once, and goes back to the task at hand, which just so happens to be starting her personal campfire.

            “Could you teach me how to change my shape?” Arya asks, suddenly. Morrigan stops, and looks up at Arya.

            “I suppose I could make the attempt,” Morrigan says, and Arya grins.

            “Great! When do we start?” she asks, and Morrigan rolls her eyes fondly.

            “Right now, if you wish,” she says, gesturing the inside of her tent. Arya ducks inside and sits down in the center. Morrigan’s tent smells like Morrigan herself, and it’s warmer and cozier, somehow, than the others.

            “How do we do this?” she asks, clasping her arms together around her knees.

            “Which animal do you wish to turn into?” Morrigan asks. Arya thinks for a moment.

            “A cat, maybe,” she says, and Morrigan smiles softly.

            “Close your eyes. Visualize a cat. Think about how a cat would move, what a cat would do. Think about how it might feel to be a cat,” she says, and Arya does what the witch said, thinking about her cat, Spots.

            “Let your magic trickle into your thoughts. The transformation, if successful, will take most of your mana. Do not let that startle you,” Morrigan says, her voice soft and comforting. Arya does as she said.

            She feels a weird tingling on the top of her head. She also feels a sharp, sudden decrease in her available mana, but none like what Morrigan was describing. She opens her eyes.

            “That was…partially successful,” Morrigan says. Arya’s brows furrow in confusion.

            “How?” she asks.

            “You have cat ears,” the witch responds, and Arya reaches her hand up, partially horrified. Morrigan wasn’t lying to her, and the ears twitch. She drops her hand back into her lap like she’d been burned.

            “How the fuck do I fix it?” she asks.

            “The spell will wear off eventually,” Morrigan promises, and Arya’s lip curls.

            “How long will it take?” she asks, and Morrigan shrugs. Arya groans.

            “I could distract you,” the witch offers, a wicked gleam in her eyes as she moves closer. Arya’s lip quirks up.

            “I think I might like that,” she says, as Morrigan pushes her down gently on the furs, a hand creeping up the soft skin of her thigh.

            “I thought you would,” she answers.

* * *

            Arya stays with Morrigan that night. When she wakes up, her cat ears are gone, and Morrigan is laying half on top of her, still asleep. She closes her eyes again, basking in the embrace, until a few minutes later.

            Cailan pops his head into the tent. “Rise and shine!” he calls out, and Arya groans. Morrigan raises her head sleepily, her golden eyes narrowed.

            “Cailan! I managed to grow cat ears last night!” Arya says, sitting up as Morrigan distances herself.

            “Is that why you didn’t return to our tent?” he asks. She nods, a wry grin on her face.

            “It took them awhile to go away. But Morrigan’s going to teach me how to change my shape, so maybe instead of just growing cat ears, I can turn into a cat,” she says, and her enthusiasm makes him smile.

            “Well, little cat, if you want breakfast I suggest you hurry. Eldris and Alistair are working on eating everything,” he says, turning to go. Arya stretches, and she and Morrigan dress together before joining everyone. Zevran gives Arya a knowing look, a gleam in his eyes. She smirks.

* * *

            They don’t get the early start they wanted- it took them too long to pack up the camp, but they manage to make good time despite that. It only takes an extra day to get to the docks at Lake Calenhad, the Circle Tower sharp and intimidating in the distance.


	18. small and frightened creatures

            Arya was, admittedly, terrified once they reached the Circle Tower, and her anxiety increased tenfold. “How very fitting they would make a prison for mages in the middle of a lake and make it look phallic,” Morrigan scoffed. Arya folded her arms over her stomach, her fingers curling into a set of the straps. Cailan and Zevran seemed to be the only ones to notice her distress, Zevran putting a hand briefly on the exposed skin of her arm. Cailan pulled her aside, to the back of the group.

            “Are you okay?” he asks, softly. Worry shone in his eyes, and Arya was touched.

            “I just…If things were different, I’d have ended up there. I still might. And I…I’ve heard the stories. About how mages are abused and neglected and how, no matter what, they still don’t have any _rights_ ,” she says, and her eyes are wide with fear. He reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder.

            “They won’t even know you’re here. You and I are supposed to wait in the inn,” he says, and something in Arya’s stomach clenches. She shakes her head, almost violently.

            “I don’t think I can do that. I think I need to be there, doing something,” she says, chewing on her bottom lip. Her fingers tighten against the straps, her arms pressed against her stomach.

            “If that’s truly the case, then we need to speak to the others,” he says, gently. She nods, almost frantically. The worry and fear is pressing in on her, thick and suffocating, and Arya doesn’t know how anyone can stand such a place. Cailan manages to catch the attention of Alistair and Eldris.

            Eldris doubles back, coming to a stop in front of them. “Is there a problem?” he asks, his eyes flicking to Arya.

            “I want to go with you. I’ll go crazy if I have to sit in that inn. I don’t need to fight, if the Tower is overrun with demons. I remember there were children, where we met Wynne. They’ll need someone to stay and look after them. I’m good with children- I could help, and it would keep me busy,” she says. Eldris sighs, dragging his hand through his hair.

            “You’re not making this easy,” he says, but there’s something soft in his frown. Arya manages a weak smile.

            “I know. I’m sorry,” she apologizes.

            “I could go as well. I have a helmet that covers my face. So long as I don’t speak, no one will know it’s me,” Cailan suggests. Eldris crosses his arms over his chest, one hand coming up to his face. He absentmindedly chews on his thumbnail.

            “Who would stay behind and get rooms?” he asks. Arya glances around at their companions.

            “Morrigan has made her distaste of the Circle clear. Perhaps she’d prefer to stay behind? Sten might like to stay, as well. I know the Qun has some…strict practices regarding magic. And maybe Leliana and Brett can stay as well, to babysit the two of them. I know Sten respects Brett, so there should be little ill there. Eliza can also stay, if you want, or if there's not room in the boats,” she says, and Eldris finds himself nodding along.

            “I’ll ask them. That seems a sound enough plan,” he agrees, and by then the rest of the group has stopped at the bottom of the hill, waiting for the others to catch up. Arya hangs back, trying desperately not to glance at the Circle Tower.

            It is a few minutes before everything is settled, but ultimately it was as Arya suggested. Eldris and Alistair passed the coin over to Leliana, and then the group of three broke off, heading towards the inn in the distance. Eldris, Alistair, Sam, Zevran, Cailan, and Arya made their way to the docks, where a fresh-faced young Templar was keeping watch.

            It takes a while to negotiate their crossing, but the man finally decides that the increasingly impatient Eldris is not worth angering, and they all clamber into the boat. Arya clings to the edge, watching the water ripple behind them. She thinks she sees something swimming in the depths, and shivers, drawing away. Cailan holds his arm up, and she burrows against his side, the cool of his metal armor seeping through her thin set of leather.

* * *

            The Circle Tower is indeed overwhelmed, the Templars desperately overworked, and Greagoir is calling for the Rite of Annulment. They manage to bully their way into fighting for the mages left, or for any who may be left, and there is a heavy sense of finality as the doors close behind them. "Crazy bastards," Arya hears a Templar mutter. She doesn't think he's wrong. Even that hallway is littered with the broken bodies of the dead, and Arya thinks it was a mistake coming here. She walks close to Cailan.

* * *

            Wynne looks exhausted from holding up the barrier, and she lets it drop away as soon as it’s established that they were there to help. Arya hands the senior enchanter several lyrium potions, and Wynne looks at her thoughtfully before accepting them. Arya gives her a smile.

            “I’m here to help. I’m not that good in a fight, so I can stay here, and watch the children,” she says. Petra, the apprentice she remembered from the game, was exhausted and perhaps even younger than she was herself. Wynne’s smile is brilliant.

            “That would be welcomed,” she says. Cailan turns to her, reaching out and taking her hands in his.

            “Be careful. I know we’ll be up ahead, killing everything we come across, but still. Something could slip past, or something else could come through the Veil. We’ll be back before you know it,” he says, and Arya smiles, stretching up on her tip-toes to kiss his helm.

            “I’ll be fine, I think. I can tell the children stories, and that’ll keep my mind occupied. You’re the one who needs to be careful. You are, after all, going to be fighting demons and abominations,” she says, a faint smile on her face. He squeezes her hands gently.

            “I’ll be fine. I can take everything they throw at me,” he promises. Eldris clears his throat impatiently, cutting any goodbyes short. Cailan does take a second to pull her into a hug, his armor jangling, before stepping back and joining the others. Seconds later, Arya is left alone with the children and the young apprentices.

* * *

            One of the children is only a toddler, perhaps three years old at most. The others are closer to six and seven, and Petra and Kinnon, the eldest of them all, are probably around thirteen.

            “If you two want to lay down somewhere and try to rest, I can take over with the young ones,” she says, picking the three year old up. He clung to her, starved for affection and terrified. Petra and Kinnon were grateful, thanking her profusely before slinking over to a corner and trying to make themselves comfortable.

            Arya gathered the other children around her in another corner, three of them pressed directly up against her, trembling. The toddler, Nyris, clung to her. She smiled brightly at them, or as brightly as she could manage.

            “Would you all like to hear a story?” she asks. They nod enthusiastically, quieting and calming. Arya had to think desperately for a story.

            “Once, there were two brothers. Their names were Sam and Nathan Morgan, and their mother was a treasure hunter. They grew up learning everything about history…” she began, and the kids were hooked. She had to do a few adaptations to the base story of the Uncharted games, but it was a fun challenge for her. Nyris fell asleep near the beginning of the story, but the others stayed attentive. Eventually, however, exhaustion won out for the rest of them, and they fell asleep too.

            Arya thought that it’d be hours before her companions returned, and now she had nothing to do. She settles down, leaning her head against the wall. She hadn’t thought she’d fall asleep, but what felt like a few minutes later, someone was gently shaking her awake.

            “Miss Arya, I think everyone’s coming back soon. I heard the big door down the hallway open. It woke me up,” Vela said, a scrawny six year old girl. Arya sat up, partially, Nyris still cradled against her chest, sleeping soundly. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Thank you, Vela,” she whispered. The girl nodded, and then wormed her way against Arya’s side, curling up. Arya wrapped one arm around the child in a one-armed hug. By the time Eldris’s group returned, Alistair supporting an exhausted Irving, Vela had fallen asleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter is a little shorter than some of the others, but I thought that was a good place to end it. There's going to be a few more chapters before they head to Denerim, which I anticipate being the approximate middle of the story. The Big Explanation is also coming up in a few chapters, so I, uh, guess that's something to look forward to. Thank you all so much for reading!! As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated and motivate me to write, so consider leaving one of those if you enjoyed~


	19. rose in paradise

            Everyone looked older, haggard and worn. Arya stretched, careful not to wake Nyris who was still curled up, snoring softly. She supposed it was because of the sloth demon, and whatever they’d encountered in their dreams, had that happened. Or it could simply be that death clung to the Tower, permeating everything. Their nose, however, woke Petra and Kinnon, who came and gathered some of the younger apprentices to them, the ones still sleepy and scared. Arya was still left with Nyris, and her legs had fallen asleep.

            “Help me up?” she asked, as Cailan approached her. He nodded, reached down, and nearly lifted her. She winced as blood rushed back into her legs, the pins and needles nearly unbearable. Nyris let out a soft coo in his sleep, but otherwise slept on.

            “You all right?” she asked him, and he shook his head slightly.

            “Not really. We can talk later, though,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. Arya nudges against him. It was the only physical comfort she could provide, with the child in her arms and the blood and gore spattered across his armor.

            “It’ll be okay, whatever it is. But we’ll talk once we get out of here,” she says, softly, and then drifts over to where Eldris and Wynne stand close together.

            “Thank you again, dear, for helping with the children. I can see little Ny is quite taken with you. He’s fussy with everyone else,” Wynne says, and Arya gives her a weak smile.

            “He was so scared. They all were. I’m glad I could do something to help,” she murmurs. Wynne’s answering smile is gentle and motherly.

            “As am I. That’s why I insist upon leaving with all of you. Eldris informed me that you were a mage, and there was another young woman in the group who was also a mage. He said you were inexperienced, and she knew few healing spells. I think everyone could appreciate having me,” she says, a wry smile on her face. Arya grinned back.

            “I think we’d be lucky to have you, Wynne. I do have a question, however,” she says, and Eldris looks slightly surprised. Wynne crosses her arms in front of her chest, glancing around the room. Alistair has sat Irving down in a chair, and is offering him some water and some dried fruit. Petra and Kinnon are comforting the other children, and Cailan is leaning against the wall, his head tipped back.

            “What is it, dear?” she asks.

            “Is there a mage in the Tower that goes by the name of Anders?” she asks, having made her mind up sometime in between waking up and standing.

            “There is. Greagoir has had him in solitary confinement for the past three months. I don’t know how he fared, with all of this mess,” Wynne answers, carefully. Arya glances at Eldris, then nods her head sharply, a gesture asking if he’d step aside and talk with her privately. He nods in agreement, and then leads the way to the far side of the room, where they’d have a little privacy.

            “Is this about that Anders you mentioned?” Eldris asked, his voice low so the others couldn’t hear.

            “It is. I was hoping we could conscript him,” she says. Eldris’ eyes narrow slightly, a calculating look that she’d seen him wear often when trying to puzzle through something.

            “Why?” he asked, genuinely curious.

            “The Circle isn’t a good place for him. He’s in solitary confinement, and I know he’s not a blood mage. He’s just a mage who wants the same freedoms as you or anyone else. If I can walk free, he should be able to do that too. And, besides, in my vision he was recruited anyways. By you. Later on. After gods know how long he spent in solitary confinement, which fucks anyone up. And you remember the mage rebellion I told you about? Maybe we can make it better by recruiting him now,” she says, insistent.

            Eldris sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. He doesn’t seem to notice the way his gauntlets catch on the tangles, or how the blood matts it together in some places. “Fine. I’ll invoke the Right if I have to. But we’re going to talk later. There’s, uh, some advice I want,” he says, and there’s something in him that looks even more disgruntled than ever. Arya is puzzled, but she nods. Nyris shifts in her arms, drawing her attention.

            A few minutes later, everyone is limping towards the main chamber. Nyris is still napping in Arya’s arms, and Vela and another little girl named Ava are clinging to her legs. She’s thankful everyone is moving at such a slow pace, anyway. She doubts she could have coaxed the children to move any faster.

            After a quick conversation between Irving and Greagoir through the door to confirm that it was, indeed, over, the giant doors swing open, and everyone spills out. The main hall doesn’t smell like death and rot, and it’s like a breath of fresh air. Everyone sags a little with relief.

            Wynne and Eldris go to talk to Greagoir while Arya stands off to the side with Cailan. Alistair is still taking care of Irving, now with the assistance of a young Templar. After a few moments, Eldris beckons Arya over. She passes Nyris over to Cailan carefully, the kid sleeping through that, and goes to join them, rubbing her arms.

            “The elf tells me you have a question,” Greagoir says, and Arya shoots Eldris a dirty look.

            “Yes. I believe you have a mage that goes by the name of Anders in solitary. I want him to walk out of here with us,” Arya says, clasping her hands behind her back and doing her best to appear in control and important.

            “Why do you Wardens need another mage? I’m sending Enchanter Wynne with you, as well as promising aid,” Greagoir says, and he doesn’t sound angry, not yet, more annoyed and confused than anything.

            “Our reasons are our own. Please go get Anders,” she says, and she is proud when she doesn’t fidget.

            “You cannot have every mage you desire,” Greagoir snaps, and finally, there is the hint of anger that Arya was waiting for. She doesn’t flinch.

            “Oh, but we can. I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription. Anders leaves with us,” Eldris says, stepping into the conversation. Arya shares a glance at him, and she’s surprised to see that he looks…proud. She tried not to grin. She was mostly successful.

            “Fine. You, and you, go get the mage,” Greagoir snarled, pointing to the two closest recruits. They bustled off, returning a few minutes later with Anders.

            He looked…awful. He was barely able to stand, and he was so thin it was pitiful. He was dirty, and he stank so badly that Arya could smell him from where she stood. His hair is dirty, thin, and oily, and he looks like he’s only barely aware of what’s happening around him. He mumbles something incoherent as the two Templars supporting him stop. Arya is stepping forward before she realizes it, anger flaring up.

            “What the fuck have you done to him?” she snarls, pushing the two Templars away and accepting his weight. He mumbles something that might have been “help” and her heart breaks for him. Greagoir shrugs, casually.

            “We did what we had to do to keep him from escaping again,” he answers, and Arya snarls, an animalistic sound. Anders weighs hardly nothing, even with most of his weight bearing down on her.

            “If I hadn’t started helping him, I would rip your eyes from your skull. Your job is to protect these mages, not lock them up in a cell and abuse them,” she hisses. Greagoir’s eyes narrow.

            “You have no right to tell me how to treat my charges,” he says, and Arya’s lips twist into an ugly sneer.

            “Someone has to, since you can’t do your damn job,” she mutters, and when Anders groans, she turns her attention to him immediately, making soft, soothing sounds.

            Greagoir doesn’t say anything else, and Alistair appears. Petra takes Nyris from Cailan, murmuring thanks, and Wynne motions Arya forward, towards the doors. She complies, and Anders is stumbling along so clumsily that she thinks perhaps it’d be better to carry him properly. Cailan helps them into the boat, Wynne and Eldris sitting across from her. Anders is still slumped over, and Arya helps him situate himself so that his head is in her lap.

            “What did they do to him?” she asks Wynne, quietly, once everyone has gotten into the boat.

            “They’ve fed him magebane. It’ll take a couple of days to leave his system,” the older mage answers, grief in her voice. Arya runs her fingers through Anders’ hair, rubbing her thumb gently along her forehead. She was so _angry_.

            “I want you to teach me how to be a healer. I want to help him, and everyone else,” Arya says, and something in her voice is steely and hard and determined. Wynne nods, and Anders shifts. Arya makes soft sounds, deep in her throat, and slowly it seems that Anders is becoming more and more aware.

* * *

            Arya insists on helping him back to the inn herself. Cailan walks close by, and she can’t tell if it’s because whatever awful thing he saw in the Fade, or if he wanted to be there in case she needed help. Maybe it was both. She doubted it mattered. Anders had gathered enough awareness that his eyes seemed clearer, and that he was aware of his surroundings.

            “Sorry I can’t be of more help,” he says, his voice hoarse and rough.

            “I’m sorry I’m not sure how to help,” she answers, and he’s awake enough that he shoots her a grin, one that she barely catches.

            “I think you’ve done wonders for my health already, just getting me out of there,” he says, his hand curling on her shoulder. She smiles, a sharp, viscious thing, lined with teeth.

            “If I’d known they were doing that to you, I’d have been there much sooner. And left with their blood splattered on the walls,” she answers, and her voice shakes with anger. He makes a soun in his throat that might have been agreement or amusement, and then they are at the inn, Cailan holding the door open for them.

            They stumble in, and what a sight they must make. Thankfully, the inn is mostly empty, so there are few patrons to stare at them. Morrigan is sitting by the fire, and Leliana by the bar. Sten isn’t anywhere in sight, but that isn’t anything unusual. Leliana rises to greet them, her mouth opening in a soft o shape when she sees Anders and the sorry state he’s in. She rushes forward to help, but Arya holds up her hand.

            “I’ve got him. Where are our rooms?” she asks. Leliana smiles weakly.

            “We managed to rent all of them. There are eight rooms, so some of us will have to double up,” she answers. Arya helps Anders into a seat, and everyone gathers around to figure out the room situation. It takes a while, everyone talking and complaining and suggesting, until it’s finally worked out. Morrigan and Sten will each have their own rooms, although Sam will stay with Sten. Cailan will share with Eldris, and Wynne with Leliana. Directly across the hall from Wynne, Arya will stay with Anders. Alistair and Zevran will be staying in the other room, which gives everyone a nice place to stay, and room-mates they can get along with. It was also decided that in the morning, everyone would meet and decide what they were going to do next.

            Wynne takes over Anders, for a while, ordering broth for him and having a bath drawn in his room. Arya is still determined to help, so once she removes her armor and rolls her sleeves up, she does.

            “She can handle bathing me, I think, if she’s really so determined to do this,” Anders says, sharing a look with Wynne. The older woman nods, and disappears for a few minutes, coming back with towels and clothes for Anders. Arya dumps her back on the bed, and then two elven servants arrive, carrying the bathtub between them, full of steaming water. Wynne makes sure Arya can handle it before leaving a bar of scented soap on the table.

            It takes a few minutes before they get Anders into the tub, but when they do, he lets out a groan. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been treated to the luxury of a bath,” he says, and Arya grins at him, reaching for the soap.

            “I think that’s a little obvious,” she answers, dryly, and he grins at her.

            She’s up to her elbows in soapy water, trying to be gentle as she scrubs at the grime on his skin, before he says anything else. “You’re being remarkably professional about this. I’d expected some blushing or something,” he remarks.

            “I’ve had to bathe people who couldn’t bathe themselves before. This experience, so far, has been a lot better. It’s easier to focus on getting someone clean when they aren’t barking orders and yelling insults the whole time,” she says, and she’d expected to feel the same old anger harden in her gut, but instead she just felt tired. Anders makes a noise in the back of his throat, something that might have been reassurance or sympathy.

            “So, you want to be a healer?” he asks. She nods, motioning for him to scoots forward as she moves around to wash his back.

            “Yeah. Even before, back in my world, I wanted to be a nurse. I have a talent for taking care of people, it seems,” she says, and before she knows it, she’s telling Anders the whole story about how she woke up at Ostagar with no clue where she was or what had happened. He was…supportive, accepting her story readily enough.

            By the time she finished, she was helping him out of the water and drying him off before he yanked some clothes on. He stumbled over to the bed, curling up, his damp hair spread out on the pillow. She drags the bathtub out into the hallway before one of the servants notice, rushing forward to help her. He takes over, insisting she go and do whatever else she desired.

* * *

 

            She finds herself in Cailan’s room. He was alone, there, having just finished a bath of his own, and bent over his armor as he scrubbed at the gore. He looked up when she entered, a tired smile on his face. “Hey,” he says.

            “Hey,” she answers, going to sit next to him. She pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. They sit in silence for a few minutes.

            “So, about today,” she says, and he sighs.

            “It was the sloth demon. I…you were there, in the Fade,” he admits, and her brows furrow. She reaches out and lays a hand on his shoulder.

            “It must have been bad, to shake you up this badly,” she says, and he lets out a wry laugh.

            “Not quite. It was only bad realizing afterwards,” he said, and he could almost hear her confusion.

            “What does that mean?” she asks. He turns to face her, some unidentifiable emotion flitting across his face. He hesitates for a moment, and then his hand is cradling her cheek and his lips are pressed against hers, hot and insistent and Arya isn’t a stranger to kissing- she likes to think she’s pretty good, but the shock makes her freeze. He pulls back after a second, opening his mouth to apologize, and then she leans forward, pressing her lips against his in a clumsy kiss, awkward because of the angle.

            Cailan shifts, scooting backwards and pulling Arya into his lap. She tangles her hands in his hair, his hands on her hips steadying her. She prays to whatever gods that are out there that no one comes into the room and finds them like this, her cheeks heating at the thought. She finally pulls away for a breath of air, and she’s left straddling his lap and staring at him. They’re both breathing heavily, and there’s something fluttering in her stomach. Cailan coughs, awkwardly.

            “I, uh, should have asked before I did that,” he said, and she almost laughs.

            “No, it’s okay. I mean, it was definitely unexpected. Good, though. Definitely wanted contact,” she says, moving off of him.

            “Yeah. So, um, where does this leave us?” Cailan asks, and Arya tenses again. This had all been pretty sudden, and while maybe she’d thought about Cailan kissing her or pinning her down on the bed and having his wicked, wicked way with her, she’d never expected anything like this.

            “That’s a very good question,” she replies, warily. She curls back up, examining the chipped and faded polish on her toes.

            “I think I’d like…something,” he says, and Arya almost wants to laugh. The King of Ferelden sat beside her, fumbling with his words and feelings like a teenage boy. Not that she was any better, mind, but the whole situation was ridiculous.

            “Well, if I recall correctly, the position of royal mistress is still open,” she says, a teasing lilt to her tone. He rolls his eyes, laying back down on the bed. His shirt rides up over his stomach. She thinks about brushing her hand along the soft skin there, but doesn’t.

            “It is. I’m not going to force you into anything, though. Say the word and I’ll court you properly. Well, as properly as I can,” he says. She grins, and lays down on her side next to him.

            “Being courted does sound nice, even if it might not be for me. I’ll tell you what. We’ll test the waters of this thing, see how it works,” she says. He smiles at her, reaching out to cup the side of her face again. 

            “That sounds nice,” he said. She reaches up, pushing a strand of hair away from his face.

            “Yeah, I think it does too. I’ll even stop sleeping with Morrigan,” she says, and Cailan rolls his eyes.

            “You don’t have to, actually. If I’m going to expect this to work between us while I still sleep with Anora, then I can hardly expect you to stay monogamous,” he says. She rubs her thumb along his jawline gently. He leans into the touch.

            “Very well. I’ll leave my arrangement with Morrigan in her hands. I’ll let her know, though. I don’t know how fond she’ll be of sharing,” she answers, and Cailan gives her and easy grin, sitting up just enough to give her a quick kiss.

            “Go on, and take care of that mage you fought so hard to get,” he says, nudging her. She rolls her eyes, but stands, stretching, before leaving the room and padding down the hallway.


	20. out among the stars

Eldris is leaning up against the wall outside her room when she approaches. “We said we’d talk, remember?” he says, and Arya nods, hoping like hell she looks presentable and not like she’d just been making out with the king of Ferelden. Which, she had, but still, appearances were important. He leads her down the hallway to a secluded alcove with a table and a couple of chairs. He sits, and motions for her to do the same.

            “Do you have any advice for courting someone?” he asks, and out of all the things Arya expected to talk about, that was not one of them.

            “Eldris, buddy, I’m not the best person to go to for romantic advice. Is there anyone specific? I can give better advice if there is,” Arya says, feeling way out of her depth.

            “I…no. There’s no one specific. Well, there is, I just don’t know if I’ll ever see her again,” he says, and for a moment he looks so miserable that Arya can barely stand it. She doesn’t have the first clue about how to help him.

            “Is she someone in your clan?” she asks, and the expression on Eldris’ face is almost an answer itself.

            “She is. With the Blight and everything going on, I’m probably not going to see her again for a long time, if I ever get to see her again. I was hoping you had some advice about courting someone from afar,” he tells her, and Arya finds herself smiling.  

            “If you can send letters, that’s a good place to start. Gifts, too, if you can manage, but I don’t know about Dalish courting customs,” Arya says. Something in him seems to wilt.

            “I’m not the best at writing. Could you act as a scribe?” he asks, fidgeting nervously.

            “Of course,” she says, grinning at him.

            “You’re the best,” he said, a faint smile on his face.

            “I know,” she answered, a cocky smirk on her face, and he laughed, pushing her gently in the direction of her room.

            “Get back to your mage and see if he needs anything,” Eldris said, and his tone is light and he is happier than he has been in a long time. Hope is, it seems, a powerful thing.

* * *

            Anders is asleep when she enters the room, a candle burning softly on the table. She doesn’t feel like putting the effort into charging her computer so she can use it, so she just pulls her pack over to the table. She decides that, since it’s been awhile since she’s drawn anything, she should start.

            She settles on drawing Eldris on a piece of notebook paper, trying to get the way one corner of his mouth would draw downwards and the way the space between his eyebrows would crinkle whenever he thinks really hard about something. She gets a pretty good sketch down until she gets to his vallaslin, and the lines and branches and swirls are just so complicated that she has to set it aside until she can look at him for reference. She settles for drawing Morrigan next, the way she looks at Arya with heavy-lidded eyes when she tries to seduce her. It turns out really well, actually, and she thinks about giving it to her.

            By the time she decides it’s time to stop, it’s late and her hand has a cramp in it, even though she has other ideas for things to draw. She leaves the sketches on the table with her pencils, and kicks her pack closer to the wall so she won’t trip over it in the morning. She blows the candle out and then feels her way around the bed, climbing in gently. Anders stirs as she slips under the blankets. “Arya?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

            “I’m here,” she answers, her voice soft.

            “It’s late,” he replies, sleepily.

            “Yeah. You need anything?” she asks.

            “No,” he answers, but his stomach rumbles loudly. Arya grins in the darkness.

            “You sure? I don’t care to sneak downstairs and bring you back something to eat,” she says. There’s a moment before he answers.

            “…Please,” he says. She throws the covers back and stands up, feeling her way to the candle again. As a mage, she coaxes the song out from where it lay dormant in her chest, and lights the candle from a neat little ball of fire in her hands. Anders rises slowly, and she moves to help him, but he pushes her away.

            “I can get to the table myself. You can, uh, go on downstairs,” he says, and she can tell that there is something almost painful about asking for help. She nods once before turning on her heel and slipping out the door, leaving it cracked open just a little. There’s lanterns lit in the hallway, so at least she doesn’t have to try and master the stairs in the dark.

* * *

            There’s a tired woman working behind the counter. There’s an air of silence over the whole place, like talking might break some unspoken rule. Arya quietly asks for a bowl of broth and some bread for Anders, and a piece of cheese for herself. She hands over the money wordlessly, and a few moments later she accepts the food with a quietly mumbled “thanks” before returning up the stairs.

* * *

            Anders has managed to get himself to the table by the time Arya arrives, looking like a small child wearing his father’s clothes. Arya recognizes the shirt he’s wearing in the dim candlelight- it’s one of Cailan’s. She also notices how he’s picked up both of her sketches, looking over them. “These are good,” he says, as she approaches.

            “Thanks. I’ve not drawn anything since I’ve been here. When I wasn’t tired earlier, I thought that was a good chance,” she says, sitting his food down on the table. He passes the sketches over before he starts eating, his hands shaky.

            “They’re good. Maybe you could even make some money drawing and painting,” Anders suggests as she lays them down on the end table.

            “That’s something to look into. I was accepting commissions back home, but I don’t know what the market would be like here,” she answers.

            “I’ve been locked in a tower for my entire life, so I can’t tell you anything about it, but I bet nobles would be your best bet, unless you worked for really cheap prices that lower classes could afford,” Anders says.

            “I’ll talk to Leliana about it, see what she says. She has an eye for art, so maybe she can give me some answers,” Arya says. The two of the lapse into silence then, until Anders finishes his meal. Arya helps him back into the bed, before gathering up the empty bowls and plates and stacking them neatly on the table. There was no way she was going back to bed, so she made sure he was comfortable and had everything he needed before slipping out down the hallway.

* * *

            There is a dim light seeping out from underneath Morrigan’s door. Arya doesn’t bother knocking, pushing it open and slinking inside. Morrigan is sitting in the far corner of the room, tucked up against the window, a candle burning low and a black book open in front of her. Arya knows what it is. Arya knows, by the horror on Morrigan’s face and the tears building in her golden eyes, that Morrigan has discovered what Arya wishes she hadn’t.

            She looks up sharply, at Arya. “I just wanted to learn my mother’s secrets. I thought it would just be spells and rituals,” she said, softly, and Arya moves to stand beside her, her arms open. Morrigan curls towards her, pressing her face into Arya’s shirt and letting out a deep shuddering breath. Arya’s arms close around Morrigan, and she slides awkwardly to the floor, bringing Morrigan with her. She isn’t sure what she’s doing, rubbing small circles on the smooth skin of Morrigan’s back in what she hopes is a comforting manner. Morrigan does her best to choke back her tears.

            “It’ll be okay, Morrigan. She won’t get you, or your soul,” Arya murmured, and it is a few moments before Morrigan pulls her face out of Arya’s shirt to look at her. Arya cups her cheek with the palm of her hand, swiping away the tears with her thumb.

            “How do you know?” Morrigan asks, sniffing back more tears.

            “A soul is never forced upon the unwilling. She will not have you so long as you do not wish it,” Arya says, and Morrigan leans back.

            “Are you sure?” she asks, something scared and vulnerable in her eyes.

            “As sure as I can be of anything,” Arya says grimly.

            “I heard about you and Cailan. The bard is insufferable with her chatter. Are you…Is whatever we’re doing over?” Morrigan asks, something frail and fragile in her voice.

            “Morrigan, I’ll always be your friend. I’ll always be there for you, whenever you need me, regardless of whether we’re engaged in a sexual relationship. I wouldn’t just use you for that. Cailan told me I could continue that, but if you’d rather not share, that’s fine, too,” Arya says, softly, her thumb rubbing a soothing circle on the other woman’s skin.

            “I…do not know what to say. I know little of friendship,” she admits, and something in Arya’s heart aches.

            “That’s okay. Just know that whether we keep our relationship physical, it is up to you,” Arya tells her, and Morrigan lets out another deep, shuddering breath. She seems calmer now, at least.

            “I think…I think we should stop the physical part, at least for a while. I need to think,” Morrigan murmurs. Arya nods.  

            “Of course. Whatever you want,” Arya promises, and Morrigan sniffles. Arya doubts she’d let any tears fall, thanks to the dryness of her shirt, but it must have been a hell of a battle to keep them from falling. Morrigan shifts into a position more comfortable position for both of them. They sit like that for a while longer before Arya insists on moving to the bed. It’s cold, and staying on the hard and uncomfortable floor isn’t going to help the situation.

            “I don’t think I can sleep,” Morrigan says softly.

            “That’s understandable. We can watch a movie, instead, if you like,” Arya offers, Morrigan curling into her, almost desperate for affection.

            “What is a movie?” Morrigan asks, her head resting on Arya’s shoulder as she looks up at her. Arya finds herself wanting to curl around the other woman, wanting to protect her, although Morrigan would probably adamantly refuse such an act.

            “It is…It is similar to a play. There are several on the computer,” Arya offers lamely. For a moment, she marveled once again at how different everything was here.

            “…Very well. It should be a suitable distraction,” Morrigan decides, drawing back enough to let Arya stand. She did, giving Morrigan a reassuring smile.

            “I’ll be back in a second,” she promises, ducking into the hallway. She wonders just how late it is, and if she’s going to get to sleep at any point during the night. Anders is still fast asleep whenever she enters their room. She quietly scribbles a note on a piece of scrap paper from one of her drawings, hoping it’s legible, before she grabs the computer and heads back to Morrigan’s room.

            The witch curls around her automatically when Arya sits back down on the bed. It takes them only a brief moment to get situated, Arya leaning against the headboards, the computer in her lap. Morrigan curls up against her side, her head resting on Arya’s shoulder. She has one arm slung loosely around her waist, and something about the vulnerability of her friend tugs at Arya’s heart.

            Arya, thanking whatever gods that can hear her for her parents’ subscription, pulls up Netflix. “I always watch _The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood_ when I’m upset. I know the title’s a mouthful, but it’s my go to feel-good movie. Do you wanna go with that, or pick something out yourself?” Arya asks. Morrigan sniffs, shifting on her shoulder until she’s more comfortable.

            “I hardly know what I’m doing. I’ll let you pick,” she responds. Arya clicks play on _The Divine Secrets_. Perhaps it would have been easier to explain a movie set in a time period closer to what Thedas was, but Arya didn’t feel like looking. She settles in, the headboard uncomfortable hard behind her head, and she falls asleep ten minutes into the movie, her head resting on top of Morrigan’s. Morrigan manages to stay up much later, almost finishing the entire movie. She knows she will fall asleep before the end, though, so she carefully moves the computer off of Arya’s lap and places it on the bed next to her feet. She can still see the screen perfectly, so she drifts off as the movie finishes.

* * *

            When Arya wakes up the next morning, with the pre-dawn coming through the cracks in the curtains, she has a crick in her neck and a desperate need to piss, but Morrigan is sprawled out on top of her, and her computer has been kicked haphazardly to the other side of the bed. It has, thankfully, not fallen off, but Arya is effectively pinned. She lays there for a few minutes, debating on whether or not she should try and wiggle out. She thinks about just staying there, but the sharp ache in her bladder convinces her to gently pry Morrigan off of her. She makes a soft noise of complaint before curling up under the covers again, and Arya pulls the chamber pot out from underneath the edge of the bed. Out of all the Fereldan customs, that was perhaps the hardest for her to adjust to. She finished, pushing it back under the bed, and stood, stretching.

            She doubted she’d be able to go to sleep again, so she left Morrigan a note on her computer, changing the settings so the computer wouldn’t go to sleep. It was running the battery down, but she didn’t want her to think she’d abandoned her. She also shut the curtains more securely, so the light wouldn’t bother Morrigan, and then headed out into the hallway. She had plans to stop by her room and check on Anders, but before she can, she runs into Cailan. Her face smacks against his chest, and she’s knocked back almost comically. His arms go around her automatically to catch her, an easy grin slipping onto his face.

            “Well, well, look what the mabari dragged in,” he said, and he was entirely too cheerful for it to be ass o’clock in the morning. She couldn’t tell if she was jealous or annoyed by it, so instead she stood on her tip-toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

            “Good morning to you, too,” she says, and a smile slips onto her face. He wraps his arm around her waist, and they walk down the hallway together, to the alcove Eldris had taken her to before.

            “Did you have a good night?” he asks, and there’s a glint in his eyes. He’s asking something else, something about her and Morrigan, and she wonders if he really meant his offer of an open relationship or whatever this was between them.

            “Depends on how you define good. Morrigan learned some…sensitive information last night, so we watched a movie. I passed out in the most uncomfortable position. I’ve got a damn crick in my neck, and the gods only know how late it was before I finally managed to get to sleep,” she complains, rubbing at the sore spot.

            “I’d offer you a spot in my bed, but Eldris is currently taking up most of it,” he says, grinning again. She lets her head fall onto the table, her hand falling close to his as she rested her chin on one arm. He laces his fingers through hers and squeezes, once.

            “I doubt I can fall asleep again anyway,” she murmurs, sighing regretfully. By the end of the day, despite feeling fine now, she was going to be aching with exhaustion. There was probably going to be another strategy meeting today, or whatever, and she doubted she’d get away with a nap anytime soon. She’d kill a man for a pot of coffee.

            “I can talk to Eldris, and you can stay with me tonight, if you like,” he offers.

            “We’ll see how the day goes,” she answers, sitting up. She stretches again, her back arching like a cat’s as she yawns. Her stomach rumbles, too, and Cailan chuckles.

            “I’ll go get some breakfast for us. You can check on Anders while I do that,” he suggests, and Arya nods, standing and stretching again. This time, her back popped several times, leaving her feeling much better about life in general.

            “You’re the best,” she says, giving him a quick kiss.

            “I know,” he answers, a cocky grin on his face as he pulls her back down for another kiss, his hand coming up to cup her face. She wants to continue, and she almost does, but then she remembers Anders, and she pulls back.

            “I’ll see if he wants to come downstairs, and we can eat there, in front of the fire,” she suggests.

            “Good idea,” he says, standing. They walk down the hallway together, sharing another kiss outside Arya’s room before Cailan heads downstairs and Arya cracks the door open. Anders is awake, sitting at the table with a book when she walks in, the curtains drawn back.

            “I started to get worried about you, before I found your note. Is everything all right?” he asks, and his voice isn’t as hoarse and he looks worlds better after a good night’s sleep and a proper meal. Arya steps inside her room, shutting the door and sitting down next to him.

            “Yeah. Morrigan just learned some…sensitive information about her mother. She needed me for emotional support,” she answers.

            “Ah, I see,” he answers, running his fingers over the soft leather cover of the book.

            “How are you feeling this morning?” Arya asks. He looks fine, but she had no idea what the effects of mage bane were. Wynne had told her it’d take a couple of days for him to recover completely.

            “I’m much better. I’m still clumsy and still a little weak, but I can feel my mana returning. I suspect that by tomorrow I’ll be feeling normal,” he says, and Arya smiles at him.

            “I’m glad. If there’s anything you need, let me know,” she says. He looks down at his hands, and then he sets his jaw determinedly.

            “I want to go outside. I want to see the sunrise out there,” he says.

            “All right. Put your shoes on and let’s go,” she says, slipping into her boots. She’s wearing the tank-top she arrived in, and a pair of shorts she’d had the tailor make in Redcliffe after much consideration. She thinks she should be self-conscious, going down there in so little, but she doesn’t care. Once they’ve both got their shoes on, Anders stands and carefully makes his way to the door. He fumbles with it for a moment, but Arya lets him get it open on his own. He seemed determined enough.

            They pass Cailan on the way out, and Eliza is standing at the door, her back against the wall as she drinks something that’s probably stronger than Arya could handle. “Where are you going?” Cailan asks, curiously.

            “We’re going to watch the sunset. Come with us?” she asks, and Cailan nods. He was mostly dressed, and Arya wondered what a sight she and Anders made. She decides resolutely that she doesn’t care as Cailan’s arm slides around her waist, guiding her through the bar and outside, into the pale morning sunlight.

            The sunrise is breaking across the lake, red pink spilling over the horizon and reflecting into the water. Anders takes a deep, unsteady breath as he watches, slipping his shoes off and wiggling his toes in the grass. He looks so…awestruck. Like he can’t believe he’s watching the sunrise outside of the Tower, with no threat hanging over him. He almost looks like he might cry.

Arya turns her attention to Cailan, giving the mage more privacy. She almost felt like an intruder in this moment. Cailan, it seemed, did too. He gave her a devilish grin, though, and leaned down, kissing her against the backdrop of the sunrise. “It’s beautiful. Almost as much as you,” he whispers, and her laughter is swallowed by his next kiss.

“You dork,” she murmurs affectionately, her arms draping over his shoulders.

“Mm, yeah, but I’m your dork,” he answers softly, pressing another kiss to the corner of her mouth. She turned her eyes back to the horizon, at the sight still spilled across the world in front of them. She glances back at Anders, at the dazed look in his eyes, and she wonders what else she’d taken for granted.


	21. do you still believe in love i wonder?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some more of my (tame) smut ahead. I'll section it off in case you don't have any interest in that sort of thing.

As it turns out, there wasn’t a strategy meeting that day. Everyone agreed that they needed a day to rest after the grueling experience at the Circle Tower, and that strategizing could damn well wait until tomorrow. Arya was free to take her nap, which she did, curled up against Cailan as he watched a movie. Morrigan had been kind enough to charge her laptop after being the reason the battery was almost dead. It’d have to be charged again soon at this rate, but Cailan was enjoying himself, and Arya was, for the most part, enjoying the sleep.

Morrigan, it seemed, had a plan for getting Eldris to agree to her ritual- when Arya went down to the inn’s common room after waking up around noon, her stomach rumbling, she spotted the two of them in a secluded corner. Eldris looked nervous, and to anyone else, Morrigan looked nonplussed. Arya, however, could see more nuances in the other woman’s expression, and she could tell that Morrigan was just as nervous as their elven friend. She gave them a friendly wave as she approached the bar, but otherwise left them alone, ordering enough food for her and Cailan before retreating back upstairs.

Anders had taken a spot by the fire in the common room, a stack of books that Wynne had produced next to him, and the senior enchanter herself was down there as well, knitting. Arya trusted her to keep an eye on Anders, and take care of him if he needed it. Normally, she’d feel a little guilty about leaving him to do her own thing, but she wasn’t actually a healer yet and had barely knew what was wrong with him. While he was, to an extent, her responsibility, it was better if she let someone who knew what they were doing handle it. Especially considering Anders had been in solitary confinement for months- sudden contact with a lot of people was, most likely, disorienting. She would, however, put effort into a nice drawing as a thank-you gift to Wynne for picking up her slack.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” Cailan says, as she nudges his bedroom door open with her hip. She raises an eyebrow at him.

“Oh? I doubt that’s a good sign,” she says, a teasing lilt to her tone, but Cailan looked serious.

“What are we going to do, when we get to Denerim?” he asks. She sits down next to him, passing him his bowl and draping her legs across his lap, bracing herself against the headboard.

“That’s probably what the strategy meeting is for,” she says, taking a bite. He sighs, and shakes his head.

“For the general plan, yes. I am, however, talking about what _we’ll_ do,” he says, and Arya frowns.

“I don’t plan on changing our relationship, if that’s what you mean. I have no illusions to monogamy with you, Cailan. You’re the king of Ferelden, and if you weren’t married to Anora already, you’d have to marry a noble woman eventually,” she says, stirring her stew absentmindedly. She’d kill for a pizza, right now, or anything resembling pizza.

“Well, there’s that, but there’s also Anora herself. How will she react to this? How will you two get along? And then, there’s the whole matter of Eldris and Alistair. Are you going to continue traveling with them? Are you going to stay in Denerim?” he asks. Arya sets her stew aside, sitting up properly to prepare for this conversation. Cailan sets his bowl aside almost absentmindedly before he begins picking at the hem of his shirt anxiously.

“I have no idea how Anora will take the news, but if your marriage was as miserable for her as it was for you, I doubt she’ll raise too much of a fuss. I can also assure you that I will make every effort to get along with Anora. I’ve seen some of her in my visions, and she’s a woman that, while I didn’t always agree with her possible actions, I respected her greatly. I still respect her. She’s a powerful woman, Cailan, and that’s something I can get behind,” she answers. He still looks anxious, and Arya doesn’t know if he really has so little faith in her ability to make friends, or if it’s something else that runs deeper.

“Will you be staying in Denerim, though?” he asks, an unspoken _with me_ hanging at the end of his sentence. She shifts, scooching closer to Cailan and resting her hand on his arm.

“I will, yes. While I think it’d be interesting to go to Orzammar, I highly doubt I’ll benefit from it. I’ll write down everything I know to prepare Eldris and Alistair, and after that, there’s no real point in me going. I’m not good in combat, and while I can defend myself, I’d rather not take any chances traveling with the Wardens,” she says, softly and reassuringly. She didn’t mention about how desperately she wanted to see the Dalish. She knew that, as a human, there’d be a sharp distrust of her. It was better for everyone, really, that she stay in Denerim. There, with Cailan’s backing, perhaps she could do something. Or, at the very least, and more realistically, be of some use to someone.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable staying in Denerim?” he asks. Arya leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“So long as you don’t abandon me there,” she answers, an easy grin falling into place on her lips. He rolls his eyes and leans forward, kissing her properly. The angle is awkward, leading to too much teeth in the kiss, but he seems much less concerned whenever he pulls back.

“You know, I think we’ll have some time to ourselves for a few hours,” he says, fingertips trailing up the side of her leg. She looked at him innocently, fighting to keep a wicked grin off of her face.

“Whatever shall we do to pass the time?” she asks, and she’s reminded of the first time Morrigan tried to seduce her with that godawful pick-up line and she has to fight to keep from ruining the moment with ugly laughter.

* * *

 

Cailan gives her a smirk, shifting so that he’s on his hands and knees, crawling up the bed until he’s definitely close enough for it to be suspicious should anyone come through the door. “I can think of a few things,” he whispers, before ducking down and pressing his lips against hers. Her hands came up and tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. His knee pressed against her through her shorts. She shifts, spreading her legs and grinding against him as he leaves her mouth, peppering kisses along her jawbone to her throat. She feels his teeth press against her skin, feels him hesitate as if asking for permission, and she tilts her head to the side. He sucks a bruise onto her skin, his teeth skimming against her as he moves on down, a hand creeping up her shirt.

“Aren’t we both a bit overdressed for this sort of activity?” she asks, slightly breathless. He pulls back, a smug grin on his face.

“Not fond of waiting?” he asks. She rolls her eyes, her hands moving down his chest to the hem of his shirt. She gives it a soft tug, a grin slipping onto her face.

“Oh, I can wait. Can you?” she asks, and then she lets go of his shirt and lets her hands drift upwards, underneath it, tracing scars and the lines of muscle. She pushes him back gently and crawls on top of him, a glint in her eyes.

“Maybe not,” he concedes, and she laughs before pulling his shirt up and over his head and tossing it over her head. Hers soon joins his in a pile beside the door, her bra following, and then he is pressing kisses and bruises across her chest. She gasps, arching into the contact, and he chuckles against her.

Minutes later, she is laying on her back, her shorts and panties somewhere across the room and Cailan is between her thighs, her hands tangled in her hair. He glances up at her, a wicked glint in his eyes. “If you say anything about having a clever tongue right now, I will leave this room and I will not come back,” she warns, panting. He doesn’t say anything, only goes back to what he was doing before with renewed vigor. She gasps and her hips thrust up, a needy whine rising in her throat.

It is only when he thrusts into her that the burning stretch reminds her how long it’s been since she’s had anything more than fingers inside her. She groans, her nails digging into Cailan’s back as his hands ghost along her sides. He is far gentler than Morrigan ever was in the handling of her, running soft fingertips over her sides and stomach and thighs where Morrigan raked her nails across the skin. Cailan presses kisses to her face and lips and neck where Morrigan would bite, her teeth bruising. She wonders, for a moment, if it is wrong for her to prefer the roughness before she sinks her teeth into Cailan’s shoulder to muffle a cry. “Fuck,” she pants, and curls up, hanging on to him as she shudders through her release. He wraps one arm underneath her, supporting her until he finishes and rolls off of her, landing on his back beside of her. He glances at her and then pulls her closer. She nestles against him for a moment, content, and the two of them fall asleep in the tangled sheets.

* * *

She wakes up a couple hours with the sharp ache of hunger in her stomach. Cailan grunts when she moves, pulling her closer and burying his face in the pillow. “C’mon, get up, I’m hungry,” she complains, and her voice is husky with sleep.

He groans and releases his hold on her, rolling onto his back and wiping his eyes with the palm of his hand. She leans over and presses a kiss to his lips. “Go get something to eat. I’ll be down in a minute,” he tells her. She smiles and carefully untangles herself from the sheets.

“Want me to save something for you?” she asks. There’s a moment of consideration before he answers.

“Nah. I’m just gonna go to sleep again,” he admits. She rolls her eyes, but pulls the blankets over him.

“Sleep well,” she said, and then went about the process of getting dressed, gathering her clothes up out of the floor. She folds his, as well, leaving them neatly on the nightstand before heading outside, letting the door close gently behind her. By then, Cailan has started snoring, his arm thrown across his face.

Once she gets to her room, she does her best to clean up and look presentable before pulling on one of the dresses she’d gotten in Redcliffe. The bruises on her neck aren’t that visible, and they’re down lower, where her clothing should cover them. That was…thoughtful, she decided. She brushes her hair, and as she does she things about the whole situation. She had enough birth control to last for another week. After that, she’d be shit out of luck, so unless she wanted a bunch of little Aryas. Wynne or Anders would probably be the best to talk to about that, but she found herself more comfortable with Morrigan. There couldn’t be any harm in asking her fellow apostate, she supposed as she headed downstairs.

 Eldris is still sitting in the corner, but he’s alone now, Morrigan having gone somewhere else. He doesn’t look absolutely miserable, so she takes that as a good sign. Alistair and Leliana have settled into a cozy spot near the door and Arya notes how close they’re sitting and the way they’re looking at each other. Anders has fallen asleep in his spot by the fire, and Wynne is knitting on, making good progress on what Arya thinks may be a scarf.

She slides into the seat next to Eldris. “How’d it go? I saw you two talking earlier. Making friends?” she asks. Eldris grunts and motions to a waitress.

“I can’t tell. I think it went all right,” he said, gruffly, and she could sense an underlying anxiety. The waitress comes over and the two of them order something. Arya orders some wine, hoping it’ll be sweet enough for her to tolerate. When it arrives, she takes a sip.

“So, I have a question. It’s awkward, so you might not want to answer it,” Arya tells him as their food is slid into place in front of them. Her stomach clenches painfully and she realizes that she hasn’t really eaten anything aside from breakfast.

“What is it?” Eldris asks. She frowns, her foot scuffing the floorboards underneath the table. He was Dalish, and while he wasn’t a Keeper or a healer, he probably had some knowledge.

“If I wanted to avoid a pregnancy, how could I do that?” she asks. Eldris makes a face, and she can’t tell if it’s disgust or sympathy or somewhere in between.

“The Dalish use herbs, but since you’re a mage there’s some spells that you could learn. Morrigan might know them, and if she doesn’t, Anders will,” he says, slightly less gruff and a little more sympathetic.

“Thanks. There were ways to prevent it back in my world, too. This wouldn’t have been a problem if I was back there- I took medication regularly that made it hard for that to happen. I’m running out now, but it wasn’t a concern a few days ago,” she says, and even though part of her wants to dig into the food enthusiastically the way Eldris is, but there is still a hard knot in the pit of her stomach at having to get a sex talk from Anders.

“I’d go talk to Morrigan if I were you. She probably knows the herbs that can help, and the spells,” Eldris tells her. She sighs, picking at her food. She’d still kill for a pizza.

“That’s a good idea. Where is she?” she asks. Eldris motions vaguely towards the door, his mouth stuffed with stew and bread. She eats a few more bites, and then stands up, wiping her mouth.

“I’ll go find her, then,” she says, and she walks outside in the cool evening air, passing a table where Brett and Eliza are sitting.

* * *

            Morrigan is sitting near the lake, surrounded by three piles of herbs and a mortar and pestle, along with multiple flasks. Arya sits down next to her, and the witch gives her a smile.

            “You seem troubled, my friend,” Morrigan says, by way of inquiry, and Arya wants to curl herself against Morrigan and stay there with her forever.

            “Cailan and I had sex and while I currently have some birth control left, that won’t last for long. I need help,” she says. Morrigan purses her lips thoughtfully before a grin turns one corner of them upwards.

            “I can help with that, but I suppose you’re sorely missing my company right now,” she says, lightly, teasingly. Arya laughs and nudges her friend gently.

            “Actually, I kind of was. You were always rougher with me. He was good, he was just…gentle. I like a little teeth,” Arya admits. Morrigan laughs, a clear and bright sound, and Arya wants to frame this moment forever. She wishes she had a sketchbook or a camera or anything to capture the expressions on Morrigan’s face.

            “Yes, I know all about how you like a teeth,” she answers, a playfulness to her tone that Arya hadn’t heard in a while.

            “Perhaps you should give Cailan some lessons. After you keep me from birthing his spawn,” she replies, leaning back on her elbows, turning her face up to the sun.

            “Perhaps. To the matter at hand, however, I know several spells. There’s a few to be cast before intimacy to prevent any worry, and there’s one that can be cast afterwards. There’s also a few to…resolve the situation if you end up with child,” Morrigan says.

            “Could you teach them to me?” Arya asks. Morrigan looks over at her, the sun glinting in her golden eyes.

            “Of course. It’ll take a few days for you to learn, but we’ll start work tomorrow. You may cramp, it may hurt, or it may be an incredibly pleasurable experience for you, so prepare either way,” Morrigan says, her tone now business-like.

            “Tomorrow sounds good. Thank you, Morrigan. I’m not sure where I’d be without you looking after me,” Arya says, a grin creeping across her features.

            “You are welcome. By the way, Arya, if that…brute does anything you don’t want, let me know,” Morrigan says, and there is a fire in her eyes. Arya grins at her.

            “I will, Morrigan. And if you need me for anything at all, you let me know,” she replies. Morrigan returns the smile, a fierce thing full of teeth. Arya was her first friend, and while Morrigan was almost uncomfortable with these new feelings she was experiencing, she would fight for this friendship.

            “I will not hesitate, my friend,” Morrigan remarks, going back to her herbs, crushing them into a fine powder. Arya sits with her for a long while, until the sun sinks towards the horizon. She helps her gather up her materials and bring them in, feeling lighter than she had in weeks because of everything and nothing at all.

            She heads up to bed, helping Anders up the stairs. She says goodnight to Cailan with several kisses in the darkened hallway before Eldris walks by, clearing his throat loudly with a sideways glance and a smug smirk in Arya’s direction. She rolls her eyes, kisses Cailan once more, and then joins Anders in their bedroom. Despite having slept quite a bit earlier that day, she fell asleep rather quickly.

            The next morning she was woken early for the meeting. There, they worked out a plan for what would come when they arrived in Ferelden’s capital city. Anders was still too weak to travel long stretches at a time, so he would stay at the inn, with Wynne, Leliana, Zevran, Eliza, and Sten. Eldris, Alistair, Cailan, Arya, Morrigan, Brett, and the dog would all travel to Denerim, stopping in the Korcari Wilds at Flemeth’s Hut. While they did that, Morrigan would continue ahead, reaching Denerim a day or two before the rest of them. While she was there, she would use an animal form, most likely a raven, to get a feel for the political climate in the city. They’d meet up outside the city, and then head for the palace, where Cailan would arrive and publicly excuse the Wardens after reassuming his throne. Once everything was settled, word would be sent to Wynne and the others, and they would join them in Denerim. This would give them time to plan everything carefully, and time for a message to be sent to the Dalish.

            Arya spent the entire rest of the day packing, and once she was finished, she began another drawing, this one of the Circle Tower in the sunset. She’d need to get paints to finish it later, but once she did, she figured she could give it to Wynne. She went to sleep early again, knowing that the next day would be full of grueling traveling.


	22. something that i can't reach

They left around dawn, sure enough, and Arya was exhausted before they’d even begun. She suffered through a sickly sweet goodbye between Leliana and Alistair, and while they were cute, she was too tired to deal with this shit. Her feet were aching by the time Lake Calenhad had disappeared behind them, and she was nearly as grouchy as Eldris. Despite all this, it was good to be on the road again. It was going to take them a full week to get to Flemeth’s hut, and another week and a half to get to Denerim from there. She hoped they could resolve the situation with Flemeth peacefully, and, the longer she thought about it, she hoped Flemeth could give her some answers about her arrival in Thedas. She didn’t mention it to anyone, preferring to walk along deep in thought, occasionally holding Cailan’s hand. That was a little more awkward through their gauntlets, but she wasn’t one to complain. The affection was surprisingly comforting and grounding, while not being too invasive.

            Five days into their journey, Morrigan went her separate way, saying her goodbyes to Eldris and Arya and turning into a crow before flying off. Arya waved at her until she was long out of sight, despite feeling a little silly for doing so. Later that day, Brett had an awkward conversation with her where he personally threatened to castrate the king if he so much as laid a hand on her that she didn’t desire, and she was left with a cocktail of emotions swirling inside of her. Brett was the father she’d never had, and while her stepfather had tried, they’d never gotten over the icy awkwardness between them. She did, however, miss home with a sharp ache. She missed everything, suddenly, but she was incredibly touched that Brett would even consider threatening Cailan for hurting her.  

After five days of walking and sleeping on the ground, she was beginning to adjust, and she was much less surly than when they began. On the sixth day, when it became clear they’d arrive at Flemeth’s around noon, they all gathered around the campfire. There was a tension gathering in the air, one that Arya wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with, so she began to sketch the scene- all of them around the campfire like a family.

            “You said you’ve had visions, Arya. Did you have visions of this?” Eldris asks, a calculating look in his eyes. Arya hesitated for a moment before answering, which was an answer in and of itself.

            “I have. There are several ways that this can go, according to them,” she says cautiously, her pencil still moving, albeit slowly.

            “Don’t keep us waiting. How are we going to do deal with this?” he asks. She frowns, and her pencil stops moving. She doesn’t look up, not yet.

            “Flemeth offers a peaceful way to get her true grimoire,” she says, finally.

            “Morrigan wouldn’t be safe,” Eldris says simply.

            “Even if we kill Flemeth, she won’t stay dead. It’ll be a hard battle that’s difficult to win even in the best circumstances. Flemeth can’t do anything to Morrigan, not unless Morrigan lets her. I’m assuming you know the nature of the matter, and I can go ahead and tell you right now that a soul is never forced upon the unwilling,” Arya replies, her tone grim, finally looking up.

            “How difficult than this battle be?” Cailan asks, curiously. If Eldris decides to fight, if there is no way that he’ll leave with the book peacefully, Arya decides then that Cailan must be kept out of the battle. He was their only chance at keeping the peace in Ferelden.

            “Flemeth turns into a high dragon. It’s a fierce battle, difficult to win, and in the end it might not work. She could kill us all, and I doubt she’d have second thoughts about it,” Arya answers, her grip on the pencil tightening.

            “I’ll make a decision when we get there,” Eldris says, after a few seconds of silence.

            “Okay. You know my viewpoint, though,” Arya says, shrugging. She forces herself to relax her grip on the pencil, and she continues her sketch.

* * *

            Flemeth is standing in front of her hut when they finally step out of the marsh, looking far more regal than Arya suspected. The magic in the air is so strong she can almost taste it, and Arya has no doubts that the Veil is thin and her powers would be accessed much more easily.

            “And so you come to me at last, my child,” Flemeth says, and she’s looking straight at Arya. Arya is perplexed, and she glances at the others through the corner of her eyes. Flemeth chuckles, a warm sound, and Arya realizes that there is a strong sense of belonging that she feels, and that Flemeth is speaking to her.

            “What do you mean?” she asks, after a few seconds. She wipes the sweat off of her brow, the air hot and humid, and Flemeth smiles, beckoning her forward by curling two fingers. Arya takes three steps forward without realizing it, and she pauses, looking at Flemeth with her brow furrowed.

            “Have you not wondered how you came to this world, girl, or why it feels so much like a home to you already?” she asks, and Arya is surprised at how utterly calm she is. She’d expected to be shaking in her boots when they came to confront Flemeth. Around them, the swamp is silent, making her feel as if she and Flemeth are the only two people in the world. Perhaps they were.

            “I have. I also hoped that you might be able to give me some answers. I know who you are, and I thought that if anyone knew, it would be you,” Arya answers. Flemeth smiles at her, a motherly smile, and Arya wonders if Morrigan had ever seen it.

            “In short, you are mine. I spent seventeen years in a ritual to bring you here,” Flemeth answers, turning to look out over the water. Arya steps forward, ever closer to her. She feels like something is about to break and shatter. She only hopes it will not be her.

            “What? Why would you do that?” Arya asks, her head tilting to the side. Flemeth glances at her, over her shoulder, a wry grin on the old woman’s face.

            “Your life on Earth was not your first. If you like, I can give you all of your memories. You would be whole, completely and totally, but there will be a price to pay,” Flemeth tells her, and the witch’s gaze is calculating and thoughtful, as if she’s analyzing every small detail of Arya’s expression. Arya knows, the second Flemeth mentions it, that she will reclaim her memories. She can feel it now, a gaping hole inside of her where something is missing.

            “I’ll pay it. Whatever it is, I will pay it gladly,” she says, and she is not so far forward that Cailan cannot grab her arm. He does, anchoring her firmly in place.

            “Arya, what in the Void do you think you’re doing?” he hisses. She glances at Alistair, who looks confused, his arms crossed over his chest, and at Eldris, whose ears are flattened back against his skull and whose lips are curled in a snarl.

            “I’m doing what I have to, Cailan. These are my memories, and this is my choice,” she says, and that hard and flinty thing is back in her voice again. If there was anything her mother ever did for it, it was to make sure she knew that her life was her choice.

            “Are you sure about it? She’s crazy. Anyone could see that,” Cailan says, trying his best to persuade her.

            “I’m positive. I’ll pay the price gladly for this. I trust her, anyways. Or, at least, as much as anyone can ever trust her,” she says, and Cailan sighs heavily and finally lets go of her arm. Flemeth has turned back to face them, and she beckons Arya forward again. She can sense the others’ concern, can sense their disapproval, but this path is hers.

            “Know this, I would never hurt my champion,” Flemeth says, and Arya pays no mind to her confusion. All would be explained in a moment. Flemeth gives her a knowing smile, and it seems like the whole of the Wilds is holding its breath, waiting for the outcome. The old woman brings her hands up, resting her fingertips against Arya’s temples. “This is likely to be overwhelming,” she warns, and Arya nods, once, and she only has a scant second to prepare herself before blackness consumes her and her world erupts in a supernova.

* * *

_An elven boy chases an elven girl through the forest, spirits gliding past with only a passing interest, if any at all. Laughter followed them, and joy. The boy’s face is unmarked, but the girl bears Mythal’s markings, and she does so proudly. Sunlight streamed overhead, and the forest was warm, but neither were out of breath and neither were too hot._

_“You’ll never catch me!” the girl calls over her shoulder, easily leaping over roots and ducking under branches._

_“You’ll eat those words, Bellanaris!” the boy calls back, and though he is behind, he is slowly gaining on her. She laughs again, a sound like chiming bells, and without warning, she scampers up a tree, moving effortlessly from branch to branch and then leaping through the canopy._

_“Oh, that’s just not fair!” the boy yells, his voice full of fondness, but he stays on the ground, running at full speed._

_“Do you surrender?” the girl asks, from so far ahead that he knows he will not be able to catch her. He slows to a stop, catching his breath._

_“Fine, Bella, you win. I’ll hunt for our supper tonight. Are you happy now?” he asks, and there is only mock annoyance in his tone. It seems that he had known the outcome from the start._

_“Of course,” Bellanaris answers, dropping down from above and landing gracefully on her feet. She flops down underneath a tree, her hands behind her head, and even that action was something graceful and beautiful. The boy sits down next to her._

_“You’re going to be the death of me one day,” he says, fondly reaching over to ruffle her hair._

_“At least we’ll die together,” she says, a wicked grin spreading across her face. He laughs, and lays down next to her, and it is a long time before anyone moves, and then they hunt together._

* * *

_The same elven girl stands in the same forest with the same elven boy. They are at an opulent temple this time, and the air is full of anger and desperation. The girl has her staff out, and it is crackling with magic. The air is sharp with it, and the girl will not go down without a fight. The boy has a bow in his hands, an arrow drawn back as far as it will go. A man far older than either of them is standing behind them, also elven, also wearing the same markings on his face as the girl. Even though the boy and the girl are still young, they are also much older. They have all seen the death of a goddess now, and neither of them expect to make it out of the situation alive._

_“Abelas, get inside the temple and seal the doors. Lanaste and I will hold them off,” she says, and her voice is cold and angry and determined and the man’s heart breaks at the sight of her. He reaches out, a hand on her shoulder for a fleeting second before he turns and flees inside, working with the others inside the temple to shut the great doors. Something heavy hangs in the air as the door to the inner sanctum finally seals behind the boy and the girl, and Bellanaris shares a look with Lanaste._

_“You do not have to stay, Lan. Mythal was not your goddess to serve,” she says, and Lanaste shakes his head and steps closer to her, the string on the bow relaxing minimally. They did not have much time._

_“Damn Mythal, Bella! I’m here for you!” he said, and she wants to argue, wants to tell him to get out and save himself so she can die with something aside from vengeance to fight for, but she swallows something bitter and doesn’t._

_“I love you, my friend,” she says, instead, and Lanaste shares a grim smile with her._

_“I love you too,_ ma taron sal _,” he says, and then Elgar’nan’s forces are storming them, death and blood raining throughout the outer sanctum. When they fall, they fall together, eternity and mercy dying side-by-side and hand in hand. Elgar’nan’s forces try for three days to breach the inner sanctum, and they go home defeated. Inside, Abelas and remaining acolytes of Mythal slumber._

* * *

_An elven Qunari woman rises early one morning before dawn has broken over the horizon, with the same face and the same hair and the same body as the elven girl before, to the crying of a young child. Her face is unmarked, and she is so much younger as she coos and sings to the child, rocking it until it calms and quiets, blinking at her curiously. As a tamassran, her role is a versatile one, but an important one. She feeds and changes the child before placing him gently back in his crib, a kiss pressed between his horns that makes him giggle._

_After making sure none of the other tamas have risen, the elven woman sneaks outside, into the cool air, and leaves the city silently. Away from the border, an elven man rests against a boulder. She greets him warmly with a friendly kiss to the cheek that he returns. “I didn’t think you’d be able to make it,” he says, and she grins at him, an easy and happy thing._

_“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she tells them, and though they must keep their meeting brief, lest they be discovered, the boy pulls out a map and the two of them huddle over it._

_“I cannot stay long, I’m afraid,” she says, regretfully, after a few seconds of chatter._

_“Don’t tell me you’re becoming responsible, Bella!” he says, playfully, and she nudges him with her shoulder._

_“Never, Lanaste,” she says, and when she slips back into the city her heart is light and happy._

* * *

_The next time Bellanaris sneaks out to meet Lanaste, she finds only his corpse surrounded by angry stens. “Were you planning on leaving us, Tamassran?” one of them asks her. She does not answer, only crumples to her knees as a sharp keen claws its way out of her throat. Lanaste was the only one who had ever given her a name, a real name, and he was her soul as she was his soul and now there was a part of her that was raw and broken and missing and she did not know how she would survive this._

_“Do you submit yourself for reeducation?” one of the stens asks, not unkindly. Bellanaris looks up at them then, a snarl rising to her face._

_“You will not have me,” she says, and so the stens shrug and do their duty to the Qun, and when Bellanaris falls, her body lays next to Lanaste’s._

* * *

_Bellanaris loved the stars. She loved them so much that she would sleep under them most nights, in the forests next to Arlathan. The city itself was a place of opulence and wealth, a place that Bellanaris did not belong, a place where Bellanaris stuck out with her sharp cheekbones and her sharp elbows and her wild and tangled hair. Arlathan was a place of bureaucrats, and Bellanaris was a soldier._

_“I do not understand your obsession with the night sky,” Lanaste said, once, but he would curl up next to her under the twinkling blanket of the sky, his head on her stomach. She would run her fingers through his hair, and sometimes she would hum._

_“The stars are so vast and beautiful, and so distance,” she answered him, her gaze still turned towards them. She could spend an eternity looking up at them and never learn their secrets. Lanaste would grumble and complain, but by the time Mythal was betrayed and he fell next to her, if anyone had asked him what his favorite memories were, he would have answered that they were spending the nights under the stars with the twin of his soul. Bellanaris’ answer would have been the same._

* * *

_When Bellanaris was first dragged in front of Mythal, the goddess sensed what the elf did not want her to. She sensed the grief and the rage that had sunk its claws into the orphaned child, and she had taken pity, purchasing her from the slavers and marking her so none of her brothers or sisters could. Slowly, she earned the elf’s trust._

_Bellanaris met Lanaste on a job for Mythal long after she’d risen to the status of champion. He was strange and new and she was drawn to him, because her soul was his and his soul was hers. His face was strangely unmarked, and he followed Fen’Harel, the mortal who was nearly a god in his own right._

_“I’m proud of mine. Of my vallaslin,” Bellanaris said, once, out of the blue. Lanaste looked at her, his brows furrowed slightly before he gave her a wide smile._

_“Of course you are. A blind beggar could see the love you have for Mythal, and the love she has for you,” he answered, and it was then that Bellanaris decided Lanaste truly was her soul._

* * *

Arya woke slowly and painfully. She had been moved inside, to a bed that smelled faintly of Morrigan, and her head ached. A thousand new memories she had not yet seen warred in her head, banging against her skull, and she let out a long and low moan, drawing everyone’s attention to her. Brett was seated next to her, arguing right along with the others regardless. Once they all noticed she was awake, Cailan rushed towards her, kneeling on the ground and taking one of her hands in his. Brett held the other, and Eldris had sense enough to let the argument drop. She didn’t know she was crying until Cailan was wiping the tears from her face.

            “What did she do to you?” Cailan whispers, and Arya gives him a weak and watery smile.

            “She gave me back my memories, just like she said,” she answers softly, her voice hoarse and sore. She wonders if she had screamed.

            “No, not that,” Cailan says, perplexed, and Arya pulls away from him with her eyebrows furrowing in confusion as her head throbbed.

            “What do you mean?” she asks.

            Eldris coughs behind them, and Arya glances up at him. “You resemble me more than him now, _lethallan_ ,” he tells her, and Arya half-falls off of the bed and scrambles over to a mirror hanging on the wall. She is, indeed, elven. She is wearing the same face as the girl in memories and her body is the same, too.

            “What did you do?” she asks, turning to look at Flemeth as her fingers let go of Cailan’s hand and trace the points of her ears.

            “I did nothing, dear girl. You, however, cast a spell, one that changed your form to what you are most comfortable with,” Flemeth tells her, and this is all too strange for Arya. She is Bellanaris but she also herself and the two personalities are just different enough to clash inside of her.

            “How did I manage that?” she asks, weakly.

            “It’s an old spell. You will not be able to cast it again. The Veil was thin here, and I fed you a stream of my mana to keep you breathing. It was an instinctual action,” Flemeth explained.

            “Thank you for…everything,” she tells Flemeth, and then turns to Cailan and asks, “What did you see?” He looks concerned, worried for her safety or perhaps her sanity.

            “After she gave you your…memories, there was a bright light as you collapsed. She caught you, and then moved you in here, and wouldn’t let us attempt to wake you. That’s what we were arguing about,” he explains, and Arya wonders if it is too late to go back to bed.

            She turns back to Flemeth. “So, should I call you Flemeth or Mythal?” she asks, and the old woman gives her a sad smile.

            “I am more Flemeth than I am Mythal,” she answers, and even though the information isn’t new, something in Arya grieves for the loss.

            “I…am still sorry. I failed Mythal…I failed you, in my duty as champion,” Arya says, only it is not Arya who failed but Bellanaris, even though they are the same yet different.

            “My child, you could not have prevented my death, and you held the sanctum. You did your duty, and I am so proud of you,” she says, and more tears fall from Arya’s eyes. She doesn’t bother wiping them away. She does not realize how close she is standing to Flemeth, and she is moderately surprised when the old woman reaches out and cups her cheeks.

            “Now go, until I call you again,” she says, and something rises within Arya, something ancient and powerful and proud. This is the price that she must pay for her memories- she is bound, as she has always been bound.

            “Yes, Flemeth. Might I inquire about the grimoire Morrigan seeks? That is, after all, why we came,” she says. Flemeth turns to the hearth and picks an ancient and worn book up, gently passing it to Eldris, who cradles it to his chest.

            “Tell her what you wish, but might I suggest honesty? Morrigan did, after all, learn from me,” Flemeth says, and she and Arya share a wry smile.

            “I wouldn’t lie to her. Thank you, again, for everything that you’ve done,” she says, and she can sense confusion from her companions. In their eyes, Flemeth hasn’t done anything, only cursed Arya with memories from times long gone.

            “Of course. Now go, _da’len,_ and let the world shake before you,” Flemeth says, her golden eyes alight with something. Arya bows, and this time, she leads the way out of the swamp. She knows that later there will be much for her to speak to her companions about, and there will be much in the way of her new memories to sift through, but for now she is herself, ancient and powerful, with magic thrumming in her veins. The world, it seems, is hers for the taking.


	23. family don't end in blood

            They made camp a little early. There was still light that they could have used to travel with, but there was no guarantee that they could find a decent spot to camp should they keep going, and they were all tired. Well, most of them were. Arya found that she was feeling fine, once her headache dissipated. She was stronger, faster, and she could see farther and more clearly than before. She could have gone for hours before she was truly ready to stop. There was new knowledge swirling around inside of her, spells and other things, things that Bellanaris had known but she had not, blending with her own until she didn’t know where she ended and Bellanaris began.

            She helped Cailan set up their tent. Helped, rather than hindered, and she could almost hear the questions he had. “I’m sure after we get camp set up, everyone will want to talk. I’ve got a lot to say, myself,” she says, and Cailan frowns at her.

            “Just…tell me something,” he says, and she turns to look at him, her head titled to the side and her mouth curved downwards.

            “Of course. What is it?” she asks, but she does not stop, because the sooner the tent is up the sooner they can all have their little talk.

            “Are you still you?” he asks, and her fingers abandon the rope, letting the tent hang awkwardly as she shifts, moving closer to Cailan. She doesn’t touch him, not yet.

            “I am. I just…It’s weird, because I’m still me, but I have memories that belong to someone else, only that someone else is me too. It’s…almost scary, but I’m still me,” she says, and he frowns.

            “You don’t even look like you,” he says, only that’s not entirely true. She looks like she would if she were elven. Her hair is still the same color and the same length and the same style, and her eyes are still the same shape and color, and she still has the dark bags underneath them, and her nose is still crooked. Her face is narrower, true, and her lips are more even, and her eyebrows are the best they’ve ever been, but her features have mixed with Bellanaris’ because they are one and the same.

            “I did that. I know a lot more spells now, thanks to that, but it wasn’t entirely intentional. I have always had most of these features. They are...Her name is Bellanaris. Or, I guess, _my_ name _was_ Bellanaris. It is…complicated,” she says, and she wonders if she should have told Flemeth to sod off with her offer of memories. Once she thinks that, there is a part of her that almost physically recoils.

            “It’s going to take some time to get used to,” Cailan says, and there’s something unreadable in his expression.

            “For you and me both,” she replies. She expects Cailan to dismiss her, but when he turns back to work, there is a soft smirk forming on his lips.

            “I think I'll have plenty of time to get used to your new body tonight, though,” Cailan says.

            “I'll make sure you're _very_ thorough," Arya replies, a smirk of her own falling onto her lips. 

* * *

         Finally, the camp was put together, and they all gathered at the campfire. Sam, it seemed, was completely unbothered by any of the events today, but Eldris and Alistair regarded her with more than enough suspicion. “Start talking,” Eldris demanded, and Arya obliged.

            “While that woman was Morrigan’s mother, Flemeth is also a vessel for what is left of Mythal. A long time ago, before the creation of the Veil, Mythal was murdered by Elgar’nan for openly siding with Fen’Harel in the war. That was the first time I died, when Elgar’nan’s forces stormed the temple of Mythal that resides in the Arbor Wilds. That was the first life I lived, but from the memories Flemeth gave me, I’ve lived many others,” she explains.  

            “What makes you think I’ll believe you? Mythal wasn’t murdered. She was locked away with the rest of the gods, by Fen’Harel,” Eldris said, and there is still the anger there.

            “I was there, Eldris. Mythal was murdered by Elgar’nan. He killed her himself, and when we tried to fight back, his people slaughtered us. It was all we could do to defend the temple long enough to get the doors sealed!” Arya says, and her voice is rising slightly with the anger.

            “Why should I believe you?” he asks, his chest rising and falling heavily.

            “You should believe whatever you damn well please. But I was there. I was Mythal’s champion, her favorite,” she answers, and she is more than a little angry herself, but her anger is older and runs deeper, millennia in the making.

            “Fine. Say I do believe you. Why did you turn into an elf?” he demands, and Arya realizes how insensitive her sudden transformation must seem to him.

            “It was not on purpose. This face and figure are the ones that I had originally, and through all my other lives, as Bellanaris. If I had been in proper control of my actions, I wouldn’t have done it. I know what discriminations the elves face every day, and I know how hard it is for the Dalish to live in this human society. I am sorry, Eldris,” she says, and Eldris looks at her for a good long while.

            “If it wasn’t intentional, then I suppose I won’t hold it against you. You’ve got a lot to learn, though, about living as an elf in a human society,” he said. Arya gave him a grim smile.

            “I know. I’m not completely looking forward to that, but I think I’ll be able to manage. I have all of you, after all,” she said, and Eldris gave her one of his infectious crooked grins.

            “What price do you have to pay for this whole deal?” Alistair asks. From the way Cailan shifts beside her, Arya knows that’s what his worry is, too.

            “I’m not entirely sure. She didn’t outright say, obviously, but I think I will still be bound in my duty to Mythal,” she answers.

            “Bound to a dead goddess?” Alistair asks, one eyebrow raised, and Arya and Eldris both snarl.

            “She isn’t dead!” they both protest.

            “There is little left of Mythal, but there is something left, and I will fight until my dying breath to protect her, even if that were not the price demanded of me,” Arya elaborates. Eldris shares a look with her.

            “I do not know if that witch truly is Mythal, but even if she were not, our legends say that she was locked away with the other Creators. She is not dead,” Eldris says, and Arya is thankful that there is at least some effort that he makes to retain his hostility.

            “Fine, that was, admittedly, poor wording. What would that mean, if you were still bound to Mythal?” Alistair amends.

            “I would be required to do anything Flemeth asked me to do. Mythal was, however, a goddess known for mercy and justice. Elgar’nan was vengeance and anger, and I think that’s why things ended the way they did. Her joining with Flemeth may yet have changed her. There was…there’s a story, I know, about a man who joined with a spirit of Justice, to give Justice a home, because Justice didn’t have a body of his own. But the man’s anger warped Justice, turning him into Vengeance. I don’t think that has happened to, although Flemeth is definitely angry. There’s so little left of Mythal that I don’t think she could have warped,” Arya says.

            “Well, no matter what it means and no matter what price you have to pay, we’ll be here to help you with this. There’s no use worrying too much about it now,” Cailan says, and so they eat a supper in terse silence, broken by little conversation, before they head off to bed.

* * *

 

            _That night, Arya walks in the Fade. She finds, somehow, Morrigan, and the witch almost doesn’t recognize her. “Arya? Why do you look so different?” she asks._

_“I talked to your mother. Eldris has her grimoire, but gods, this is a complicated mess. I wish you were here,” Arya says. Morrigan slides closer to her, and it seems as though they are in a garden._

_“Tell me everything,” Morrigan says, and her tone is more sympathetic than she would have liked._

_“I thought maybe your mother might know something about how I got here. She has her fingers in a lot of pies, metaphorically. It turns out that this is just some reincarnation bullshit. Your mother gave me access to my memories. I was an elf in Arlathan, first, and…there’s so much, Morrigan. There’s so much you don’t know about your mother,” Arya murmurs, almost miserably._

_“I’m beginning to get that impression. How bad is it?” Morrigan asks._

_“Your mother is the vessel of whatever is left of the elven goddess, Mythal. When I was Bellanaris, in Arlathan, I was an orphan. I don’t remember much before I met Mythal, not yet, but when I was brought before her, she saw everything I didn’t want her to, and she took me in and helped me. She saved me, really. If she hadn’t chosen me, and one of the other Evanuris had, I would have died. I became her champion, and then, later, she was murdered by Elgar’nan. I originally died defending her temple so that those inside could seal it. There are more memories, more lives, but that was the first, and I think, perhaps, the key,” she explains. Morrigan shifts closer and lays a hand on Arya’s knee._

_“This is…shocking, but I believe you. It is difficult to lie in the Fade. Did she demand a price for returning these memories?” Morrigan asks._

_“She said there would be one to pay, but she did not say what it is. I may be bound to my original oath to Mythal, or there may be something else,” Arya admits, and her fear shows. Morrigan curls closer, automatically, until she is laying against Arya’s chest._

_“Whatever price she demands, I will stand beside you, my friend,” Morrigan says, and Arya’s breath catches in her throat._

_“I appreciate that. I have a feeling that I might need your support by the time this is over,” Arya says, and Morrigan’s smile is brilliant even if Arya can’t see it._

_“You will have it.”_

* * *

            When Arya wakes the next morning, she is full of determination. Whatever the price is, whatever this means, Arya will pay it, and her new family will stand beside her. _  
_


	24. and they said you couldn't go home again

            They hit nothing but good weather as they trek towards Denerim, making everything a little easier. As a result, they make good timing, and Arya’s newfound strength and abilities let her travel faster and longer, so they’re no longer compensating for her. Although she’d expected it, the suspicion that Eldris and Alistair regard her with stings a little. Cailan had been a little wary at first, but once he’d been reassured that she was really still herself any awkwardness had left. Sam remained unbothered by everything, and while Brett was concerned and shocked, he supported her and did so staunchly. His support meant the world to her.

            Denerim was…not what she expected. It was massive, and while she’d known it would be, she hadn’t expected a city of this size. Morrigan met them outside the gates, looking desperately bored. “What do you have for us?” Alistair asks, when they finally reach her. Arya takes a moment to remove her back, stretching her shoulders and doing her best to soothe the tense muscles. Morrigan seems moderately surprised to see Arya and her new body and her new face, but she does well at hiding it.

            “It is as she said. The alienage is locked down, with reports of a plague. The arl’s son was murdered, and there is an elven woman by the name of Anaba Tabris in the dungeons who is supposedly responsible for the act. Queen Anora has shown interest in the elf. A noble man by the name of Lysander Cousland has also taken up temporary residence in the castle. I was unable to find out more about him, but it seems as though he is petitioning Anora for assistance,” Morrigan tells them, and Arya starts at the familiar names.

            “I know the Couslands. Lysander was Bryce’s youngest. I’ve never met him personally- I wonder what he could want?” Cailan murmurs. Arya clears her throat, and everyone’s attention moves to her.

            “I think I know. In my visions, Arl Howe attacked the Cousland castle. Sometimes, Lysander was the only survivor, other times there were none. I may have some information about Tabris, as well,” she explains.

            “Well, I suppose we’ll find out shortly. What’s our plan? How are we going to go about doing this?” Alistair asks, and Arya looks towards the horizon, where the sun is sinking lower and coloring the sky with oranges and pinks.

            “Everyone going into the palace would just be suspicious. We should divide the team- a couple of us will go with Cailan as an honor guard, and the others can go to an inn somewhere. It’s getting late, it’d be hard for the palace’s servants to ready rooms for everyone anyway,” Brett suggests. Cailan and Alistair both nod their agreement.

            “I want you to accompany me, Brett, as well as Arya. Having Eldris or Alistair along will be a good idea as well- it’ll explain the Warden business,” Cailan says. Arya drags a hand through her hair nervously. She’d expected Cailan to request her presence at his side- but she was elven now. She knew what some would think of her if she showed up to the palace at his side. She wasn’t going to tell him no, though. If she were in his shoes, she’d want the support, too.

            “We could wait and arrive in the morning. That way the group going into the palace isn’t too large, and if things go sour we’d have time to get out of the city,” Eldris suggests. Cailan’s brows furrow as he bites his bottom lip, glancing between them all as if he’d find hidden answers there.

            “Very well. Arya, Brett, and I will head for the palace tonight. I need a few moments to change into my armor, but after that, I’ll be ready to go. The rest of you should go ahead and head into the city. There are several inns in the market district that should be suitable,” he says, finally. They nod, gathering their things again, and Brett and Cailan go a few steps away, into the scrawny brush, so the latter can change into his armor.

            Eldris pulls Arya aside. “Listen,” he begins, hesitantly, “I know people are going to treat you differently than they would have before. Keeper Marethari gave this to me whenever I left. It’s not much, but maybe it’ll help,” he says, and he passes over a worn cloth hood, the edges lined with leather. There are twisting vine-like designs pressed into the leather, and the cloth may have at one point been a pale purple. It reminded her of the hood Abelas wore, and she took it carefully, holding it to her chest.

            “Thank you, _lethallin_ ,” she says, softly, and there is something fragile in her voice. Eldris gives her a gentle smile and pulls her into a quick hug before releasing her.

            “I don’t know if you’re right about Mythal and the other Creators. I don’t think it matters, though. You’re the closest thing to clan and kin I have, now,” he says, and there is something achingly sad in his voice. She pulls him into another hug.

            “Your clan is still there, Eldris. After all this is over, you can go back,” she says, and a soft smile turns the corners of his mouth upwards.

            “I think I will. I’ve sent a few messages- I don’t know if they got them. But you be careful, Arya. These _shem_ aren’t going to care about you,” he says. She nods, brushing his hair back out of his eyes.

            “I will. You be careful, too, Eldris,” she says, and he flashes a crooked grin at her.

            “I always am, da’len,” he says, ruffling her hair before heading off to the gate.

            Morrigan approaches Arya next. “If anything happens, you set the entire place on fire. You have my blessing,” she says, sniffing. Arya grins at her and pulls her into a hug. Morrigan is temporarily shocked, but she returns the hug without much protest.

            “I’ll do my best,” she said, and she wasn’t sure why everything had an air of finality about it. She supposed that after this, they’d all be branded as criminals if their plan failed. Morrigan nodded before joining Eldris and Alistair at the gates, disappearing inside. Cailan came back out of the brush a few moments later, his golden armor glittering in the sun.

            He looked…right, in that armor, Arya thought, but she and Brett merely split the contents of his pack between them. It wasn’t right for a king to carry his own pack, after all, or at least that’s what Brett said, and so they’d split the load and Arya pulled the hood Eldris had given her on. By the time they headed into the city gates, the pinks and oranges of the sky were shot through with deep indigo. A few scant steps past the gates, and people were already recognizing Cailan, leading to a long procession to the castle where Arya followed Brett’s lead and pretending like the citizens didn’t exist until they got too close to Cailan.

            Loghain met them at the palace with a group of six guards, one of them most likely Ser Cauthrien.  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, sounding for all the world like an angry father who’d waited long past curfew for an errant child to return home.

            “I have returned. My country needs me,” Cailan answers, a crooked grin slipping easily onto his face. Loghain crossed his arms over his chest and leveled a glare at Cailan that made Arya wince.

            “Where have you been? Who in the Void is that with you? You’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” Loghain says, sounding for all the world like a father scolding his son. Arya tried desperately not to laugh once she saw the similarties, fighting to keep her face schooled.

            “That’s a long story, Loghain, and one perhaps best discussed inside. What is important is that I’m back now, and I’m not going anywhere until the Blight ends,” Cailan says. Loghain sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Upon closer inspection, Arya can see how tired Loghain looks. The bags under his eyes are dark and he looks…stressed.

            “Very well. We’ll meet in your study,” Loghain says, and the guards part to let them through, Loghain leading the way through the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I don't even have a good excuse for why it's taken so long to update I had all but a paragraph written and then my wisdom teeth were cut out and school started and I've just been too lazy to get onto this computer and update. 
> 
> Next chapter shouldn't take that long to update, and it'll be when the Big Explanation happens. Anora may be introduced then, or in the one after idk we'll see how it pans out but I hope you enjoyed this!!!


	25. do no harm (but take no shit)

            While Loghain set a brutal pace through the castle, leaving Arya with little time to admire the décor, she did notice how beautiful it was. The walls were covered in tapestries and murals and mosaics, and the rugs running along the centers of the hallways were a form of artwork themselves. Most of it depicted various stories, the most common theme being battles that Arya assumed were from Ferelden history. Servants brushed past the group, working in a frenzy now that the king had returned with guests. As they draw closer to the study, Cailan reaches out and links his fingers with Arya- a gesture that Loghain doesn’t fail to notice. She can feel his glare, and staunchly avoids looking at him.

            When they finally reach the study, there are several chairs around a table, and tea set out for them. The tension in the air was so thick, it could have been cut with a knife as Cailan let go of Arya’s hand and took a seat at the head of the table. Arya, seeing no better option, sits down next to him, although she wonders if she would feel better if she remained standing. Loghain sits across from Cailan, and Brett assumes a position behind Arya. She feels some sort of comfort at his presence.

            “So, boy, why don’t you start talking?” Loghain asks, leaning back in his chair with his ankle crossed over his leg. He’s feigning nonchalance, but Arya can see how tense and angry he is. She wishes miserably for a moment that she’d gone with Morrigan and Eldris.

            “After the battle of Ostagar, where it failed spectacularly, I was found near death on the battlefield by the Grey Wardens. They spent some time nursing me back to help, and I traveled with them for a short while until we could return to the capital,” Cailan explains, and Arya knows in that moment that the story won’t hold up. Loghain has to know better.

            “I’ve known you since you were a boy, Cailan. Do you expect me to believe that?” Loghain asks with a snort. Arya fidgets, glancing at Cailan. She feels Brett place a hand on her shoulder, which makes her feel much better.

            “I’m telling you what you need to know, Loghain. There’s more at stake here than you could know,” Cailan replies easily, effortlessly. At least Arya knows he can hold up under verbal fire.

            “At least tell me who she is. I’m not stupid, boy, she’s no Warden,” Loghain says, his gaze turning to Arya. She swallows heavily.

            “Her name is Arya, and her story isn’t mine to tell,” he answers.

            “Are you that friendly with all of your traveling companions?” Loghain asks, his gaze swiveling back to Cailan. Arya almost winces.

            “No, I can’t say that I am,” he replies lightly, and Arya notices how exhausted Loghain looks. Cailan’s disappearance must have been hell for the man.

            “You must know how this looks, Cailan. The King of Ferelden disappears for months, and then shows up again with a flimsy explanation and a knife-ear hanging onto-“ Loghain begins, but Arya cuts him off and jumps to her feet, knocking her chair back loudly.

            “What was that?” Arya asked, leaning over the table, her hands splayed out on the wooden surface to keep them from trembling.

            “I believe you heard me,” Loghain answers, and it takes all of the willpower Arya possesses not to jump across the table and backhand the man.

            “If you can’t manage to show me the same fucking respect that you’d show anyone else, you’re not going to have vocal cords for much longer,” Arya threatens. Cailan sighs loudly beside her, and she can almost see him pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration without turning to look. Loghain, meanwhile, watches her intently, his eyes narrowed. The look is calculating, and Arya gets the sudden feeling that this is some sort of test.

            “And just who are you, girl, that you so boldly demand my respect?” Loghain asks, and she realizes that this is definitely some sort of test.

            “That’s a good question, and a long story,” she mumbles, a week of existential crisis catching up with her suddenly. She pushes herself back off of the table and crosses her arms over her chest.

            “Then I suggest you start telling it, before I have you thrown in the dungeons,” Loghain replies. Arya huffs and turns away, walking over to the window. The room overlooks the gardens, and they are quite beautiful.

            “This isn’t how we were planning on telling you,” Cailan warns. Loghain shrugs in response, and Arya begins talking.

            “Once, the Veil didn’t exist. Spirits mingled freely throughout the world. Elvhenan was the empire, Arlathan it’s capital. Most think of the wooden aravels the Dalish use currently when they think of Arlathan, but think instead about crystal spires twining through the treetops, wonders that only uninterrupted access to magic could produce. Then, there was a war. The effects happened slowly. The Evanuris were great generals, and then great leaders, and then they were gods. There was an elven girl dragged before them, an orphan, lost and angry and scared, and Mythal saw what I didn’t wish for her to. She took me in, gave me shelter and safety from the others, and I became her favorite, her champion. Then she was murdered by the others in their greed for power, and I died defending a temple long enough to get the doors sealed. I only received those memories recently, and there is much that I don’t know,” she says.

            “You expect me to believe any of this?” Loghain asks, one eyebrow raised. Arya keeps her back to him, looking out over the gardens.

            “You can believe whatever you like. I’m telling you what I know,” she replies. Loghain scoffs.

            “I can tell you, at least, believe your story. Still, now is a bad time for your relationship to be made public. Cailan, you must know this. Anora’s too fond of that Cousland boy that’s been hanging around- a scandal was brewing already. It’ll be ten times worse if the kingdom finds out you and-“ he hesitates, glancing at Arya.

            “Arya. My name is Arya. Or Bellanaris. I prefer the first one,” she answers, mindlessly, and he continues.

            “If the kingdom finds out about you and Arya, or Anora and Lysander, it’s not going to be pretty,” Loghain warns.

            “Arya and I will speak with Anora and Lysander and handle it, Loghain. We can do that now, in fact, as soon as someone can go round up the two of them. Meanwhile, I want reports on everything that’s happened while I’m away, delivered as soon as possible. The country is faced with a Blight- we need to hurry. There will be Wardens arriving tomorrow, and many more guests arriving after that.

            Loghain nods and stands. “Very well. Arya, I’ll meet with you privately later. You claim to have knowledge of this world, and I’m not going to take you at face value,” he says. She nods, turning back around and leaning against the wall.

            “Yes, sir. I look forward to that conversation,” she tells him. The corners of his mouth twitch as if he’s fighting back a grin, but then he turns and sweeps out of the room.

            “I’ll go find Anora and the Cousland boy,” Brett says, bowing and striding out after him. Cailan rises and walks over to Arya, putting a hand on her shoulder.

            “You handled that well. Are you all right?” he asks.

            “More or less. I definitely could be worse,” she replies, standing up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. He smiles and wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her closer.

            “The worst part is yet to come. Anora is a terror,” Cailan warns. Arya laughs, leaning against him.

            “We’ve got this, babe, don’t worry,” she says. They pull apart, Cailan heading back to his chair, and the door swings open.


	26. out of kindness, i suppose

            The first thing Arya noticed about Anora was how composed she is. A man follows her, moving through the room with cocky ease. She assumes that this is Lysander Cousland. He is small but muscular, his hair brown and falling into his face, and he has two daggers strapped to his thighs. His eyes glint in the light, a dark brown color, and Arya knows he’s more dangerous than he seems. She tries not to shiver.

            “So my husband arrives, dragging another woman with him,” Anora says, and there is steel in her eyes but a soft smile on her lips. She sits carefully, crossing one leg over the other, while Lysander sprawls out almost casually, his feet propped up on the table. It did nothing to hide the tension.

            “In all fairness, I tried to discourage him,” Arya replies. She is still standing by the window, her arms crossed over her stomach as she leans against the wall. She is more comfortable here, too anxious to sit, even though her feet are beginning to ache.

            Anora smiles, and Arya relaxes considerably. “I suppose you discovered he was not so easily discouraged,” she said, and Arya nodded, a faint smile of her own on her face.

            “I did indeed,” she murmurs.

            Lysander clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “So, we’re here to negotiate our relationships?” he asks. Something about his voice makes Arya squirm.

            “Negotiate sounds so…clinical,” Arya complains, and he shoots her a grin.

            “I have a suggestion, if I may,” Anora says. Cailan crosses his arms.

            “Let’s hear it,” he says.

            “Lysander and I will keep to ourselves. You and her will keep to yourselves. We’ll come together to rule the country and do our duties, but our private time is just that,” she says, and Arya thinks that maybe she’s missing something pretty important.

            “That’s a great idea and all, Anora, but isn’t that just a breeding ground for resentment? We’ll all end up hating each other if we do that, and it’ll be damn near unbearable,” Arya chimes in.

            “I agree. There are other breeding grounds that are much more fun,” Lysander says, laughter in his eyes, and Arya almost chokes. Cailan coughs, shifting in his seat uncomfortably.

            “What if we hate each other anyway? Anora and I aren’t on the best of terms already,” Cailan points out.

            “I can at least be civil, Cailan, and it’s worth trying. Arya is right,” Anora says, casting a glance at Arya.

            “Well, if we hate each other, we hate each other, right? We can keep to ourselves after, but shouldn’t we at least try not to be assholes?” Arya says. She moves closer and perches on the edge of the table. Lysander sends her an appreciative glance, and she can’t stop her shiver.

            “All right. This sounds…like a nice idea,” Cailan says. The others agree, and Arya’s thankful that it was all worked out so quickly.

            “There are, however, a few things you should know about me. I’m not keen on starting whatever this is with two of you in the dark,” Arya says, and then she is standing and pacing again.

            “Well, that’s kind of you,” Lysander says, smirking. Arya chuckles, anxiously tugging on her necklace.

            “Yeah, well, it’s pretty fuckin’ complicated, you’re both probably going to call me a liar, and I don’t know where to start, so…” she says, and Cailan shakes his head fondly.

            “Start with the Mythal thing,” Cailan suggests.

            “Mythal? Isn’t that an elven goddess?” Lysander asks.

            “You know about Mythal?” Arya asks, stopping her pacing to look at him.

            “Not much. Father had a book in the library of old Dalish legends. She was mentioned,” he says, almost casually, but she can see _something_ flash in his eyes.

            “Well, Mythal is an elven goddess. She was the goddess of justice, a counter to Elgar’nan’s vengeance. A long time ago, there was a war. The Creators were great soldiers, first, and then great generals, and then great leaders, and then, finally, they were gods. It happened slowly. Later, though, they started taking slaves. When my parents were murdered and I was kidnapped, I was brought before Mythal. She saved me, and in turn I became her Champion, her favorite. When Elgar’nan betrayed her in a fit of jealous rage, I...we were all that was left. I held off his forces long enough for the Temple doors to shut. I don’t know the rest of Mythal’s story, and I don’t know all of mine. All I know is that, eventually, I reincarnated on Earth. The vessel of what is left of Mythal spent nearly two decades constructing a ritual to bring me back. I’m not sure why. We’ll probably find out,” she says.

            Arya is met with silence. Anora shares a glance with Cailan, and then one with Lysander. “Well, you were right. You do sound completely crazy,” Lysander says, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a grin.

            “Yeah, well, I warned you,” she says.

            “So, say we’re willing to go along with this. You certainly believe it. Cailan seems to. What else is there, princess?” he asks.

            “I’m a mage. There’s no magic on Earth, where I’m from, so it was a shock,” she says, and there is a challenge in her eyes whenever she meets his gaze.

            “And why are you carrying daggers?” he asks. Arya shrugs.

            “Someone thought it would be better for me to have something to use instead of my magic,” she says.

            “Do you know how to use them?”

            “Sort of.”

            He grins. “I’ll teach you, then, if we’re going to do this,” he says.

            “I…Well, I appreciate that,” she says.

            “Yes, yes, how very touching. I’m sure you’ll be fast friends. What about this Earth you mentioned?” Anora asks.

            “That’s…even more complicated. Like I said, there’s no magic there, but we’re so far ahead of Thedas technologically that some of the things we have seem like magic. I have a computer with me, and it’s…well, it’s nothing like anything you all have here,” she replies.

            “Show us,” Anora demands.

            “It’s…okay. It can play music, and there are movies which are sort of like plays but not really. It can also help me find a lot of information,” she says, kneeling down to pull it out of her pack.

            “Now there’s a position I could get used to seeing you in,” Lysander mumbles, half to himself. Arya flashes a grin at him.

            “If you play your cards right, you just might,” she answers easily, standing. She places the computer on the table.

            “Well, well, aren’t you a bold little thing. Why don’t we start with music? It’s something we already know,” Lysander says, grinning at her. He looked so smug.

            “It’s not going to be any music you know, trust me,” she says.

            “What are you going to show them?” Cailan asks. She meets his gaze across the table.

            “Dunno yet. You’ve got something in mind?” she asks.

            “Let me see it,” he says, and she pushes the computer over towards him. A few seconds later, music starts playing. It was one of the songs Arya didn’t listen to often, one she kept purely for nostalgic reasons.

 _Living on the road my friend_  
_Was gonna keep you free and clean_  
_But now you wear your skin like armor,_  
_And your breath as hard as kerosene._

 _You weren’t your mama’s only boy_  
_But her favorite one it seems_  
_She began to cry when you said_  
_Good-bye, and sank into your dreams._

_Pancho was a bandit boy_  
_His horse was fast as polished steel_  
_He wore his gun outside his pants_  
_For all the honest world to feel._

_Pancho met his match, you know_  
_On the desert down in Mexico_  
_Nobody heard his dyin’ words_  
_Oh, but that’s the way it goes_

 _All the federales say_  
_They could have had him any day_  
_They only let him slip away_  
_Out of kindness, I suppos_ e

            She turns it off before it can play out. “So, there’s the idea of it. Depending on how much time we’ve got, I can show you a movie, too. They’re usually about an hour and a half long, some longer, some shorter,” she says.

            “I’d like that. We’ve certainly got the time, and this device seems interesting,” Anora says.

            “It’s not dangerous, is it?” Lysander asks.

            “Not really? I mean, it can be, but generally, it’s harmless,” she tells him.

            “What are you going to show us?” Cailan asks, almost eagerly.

            “I could introduce you all to horror movies, or kids’ movies,” she says, and there is a faint smile on her face.

            “Horror movies?” Anora asks.

            “It’s movies about something scary. A lot of them are garbage, I’ll admit, but some of them are quite good. I rarely watch them, though. Usually, I watch kids’ movies,” she explains.

            “Well, show us your favorite,” Lysander says.

            “All right. We’ll have to pile together in the floor so we can all see the screen,” she says, and it takes several long minutes to arrange themselves. In the end, Arya is sitting on Lysander’s lap, with Anora and Cailan squished together on either side of them. She goes to Netflix, and scrolls for a few minutes before pressing play.

            “So, okay, there’s probably going to be a lot that you don’t get in this, but that’s okay? It’s more of a cultural insight than anything,” she says, pressing play. She’d decided to show them Brother Bear, mostly because it’d been a long time since she’d seen it. It was still one of her favorites from childhood.

            At the end, she supposes they all enjoyed it. Lysander had started playing with her hair halfway through, and she’d practically melted with a soft purr, nearly falling asleep. He’d chuckled to himself, but hadn’t stopped, and when the movie ended, there were only a few moments before the door opened as Loghain entered.

            “You two have been here for nearly two hours. I was beginning to get concerned. I see now that it was justified,” he mutters.

            “Do you have something to say about the state of my affairs, Father?” Anora asks, standing and brushing off her skirts. Arya reluctantly hauls herself to her feet as well.

            “You know my feelings on the matter. Anyway, Arya, I thought we could meet tomorrow over lunch. It’s nearly supper now, so I doubted you’d want to meet tonight,” Loghain says, turning his attention to her. She stretches lazily, her back popping.

            “That sounds fine to me,” she answers.

            “We can start your training in the morning,” Lysander says.

            “…All right, but if I have to meet with Loghain covered in bruises or blood, I’m setting you on fire,” she says. He grins, reaching up to ruffle her hair.

            “I’ll make sure we finish early enough for you to take a bath after,” he promises.

            “How considerate,” she teases. He chuckles.

            “Are we going to eat in the main hall?” Cailan asks.

            “I think it’ll be best if we dine privately. We’ve been given a lot to think about,” Anora says.

            “She does have a point,” Arya agrees.

            “All right. I’ll join you, then. Are our rooms prepared, Loghain?” Cailan inquires.

            “Yes, they are. I’ll have the servants send two meals to Arya’s room. Will the two of you be dining together or…?” Loghain asks, turning to Lysander and Anora.

            “I’d like to eat alone,” Anora says.

            “As would I,” Lysander agrees, and after the servants are notified, Arya is led to her room. It is grand thing, like all the other rooms in the palace, large and spacious. There is a fire burning low on one wall, several bookshelves taking up another, and in front of the fire sits a table and two chairs. There’s a couch and another table, and then there’s the bed. It’s the biggest bed Arya’s ever seen, and it takes everything in her not to jump on it immediately. Instead, she settles into a chair at the fireplace, across from Cailan, and the two of them eat. That night, when she is alone for the first time since she came to Thedas, her sleep is restless. Arya dreams.

            _In a time before the Evanuris were the Evanuris, a time when war was brewing but had not yet broke, a little elven girl grew up among the crystal spires of Arlathan. It was a great and magnificent city, and the girl felt lucky to call it home. She learned all the nooks and crannies and all the alleyways and all the places she could get into trouble. She would play in the alleys, and run through the streets, and one day, war broke out in a blinding flash. The streets the girl had played in flowed with blood, but she was older, old enough to pick up a staff and fight, and so she joined the army to protect her people and her city._

_The elven girl met an elven boy. He fought with a bow instead of a staff and he made jokes in the middle of battle, but he stood side by side with her and she felt safe when he was there. They fought with another elven girl, one much older than both of them, who went by the name of Mythal, until she was promoted. They fought and bled together, and then the war was over and Arlathan restored._

_The elven girl chased the elven boy through the streets she once played in, and there was laughter in the streets again. Sometimes he would let her win their games of cat-and-mouse, and she would catch him. Other times, they didn’t stop running until they were far away from the glittering spires. They would collapse in a pile together, panting and giggling somewhere in the forest. Sometimes they would wrestle and sometimes they would lay on their backs, looking up at the sky as the stars emerged._

_While they played and laughed and loved like the children they didn’t have a chance to be, Mythal and the other generals rose through the ranks of power and flirted with godhood. “Should we be worried?” the boy asked one day, his voice hushed, even though they were alone in the forest._

_“No, ma taron sal. Mythal can handle herself,” the girl said. So they laughed and they loved and they tried not to worry, until a few months later Dirthamen put an arrow through her skull and a knife in his throat and told Mythal they had disappeared together for a new life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, the words "ma taron sal" have cropped up before. it basically means "my twin soul" which is a concept that will later (probably in the second fic) be explained upon a lot more, when the 'twin soul' comes into play. 
> 
> the lyrics are not mine (i could never be that talented) and are from a song sung by merle haggard and willie nelson called "pancho and lefty" 
> 
> i'm probably going to split the next segment into a couple different filler chapters, depending on how long each section runs. with school and all, i'm not sure how long it'll take me to get up, but hopefully not too long. anyways!! i hope you enjoyed this chapter!!


	27. don't you see the starlight?

            Apparently the phrase _in the morning_ meant _the ass crack of dawn_ for Lysander. Arya was woken entirely too early in her opinion, by a pretty elven servant girl. She had long dark hair bound in a neatly braided bun at the top of her head, and wide tired eyes with dark bags underneath. “Excuse me, miss, Ser Cousland sent for you. He’s waiting in the courtyard,” the girl says. Arya groans and burrows deeper into the pillows.

“Thank you. Give me a minute,” she mumbles. She takes a moment to stretch, throwing the blankets off and exposing herself to the chilly morning air.

“Of course, mistress. I’m supposed to help you dress,” the other woman says. That gets Arya up in a hurry.

“You don’t have to! I mean, I don’t want to be of any trouble!” Arya says hurriedly. The woman starts when her face comes up out of the mountain of pillows she’d burrowed under.

“You’re not a shem?” the woman asks, astounded.

“…It’s a long story, but no. What’s your name?” Arya asks.

“Anaba Tabris. I should be in the dungeons, but Queen Anora showed mercy, or at least, I'm sure that's what they'd tell you. I’m to work in the palace now, to pay off my sentence,” she answers, bitterness leeching into her tone.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Anaba. Would you rather work for me, or…? Cause I can talk to Anora about making you my personal servant. I’ll be here for a while, and well, I don’t know, I thought maybe you might like it better? If it were up to me, I'd have you freed completely, but you know how it is. Someone always has to take the hit, and it's easier if it's not some noble,” she offers, her head tilted to the side.

“Yes. There’s nothing to consider. It’s either working for a shemlen or working for one of my kind, although I don’t know what’s so special about you,” Anaba says, looking her over. It’s clear that the statement wasn’t meant to be offensive, but it still stings a little.

“Cailan took a liking to me. It’s…well, I’m sure you can guess,” Arya explains, finally sliding out of bed. The floors are cold, but it feels nice on her feet.

“He didn’t force you, did he? King or not, I’ll gut him,” Anaba says, and there is something hard and bitter in her eyes and Arya has to look away.

“No it’s…it’s not like that,” she replies, quickly. Anaba still looks suspicious, but she accepts the answer readily enough.

“Right, well, as I said early, Ser Cousland sent me to fetch you. He’s waiting in the courtyard,” she says. Arya nods.

“Right, yeah. I think all of my clothes are still in my pack,” she says, walking over. She hefts it onto the couch and starts digging through it. She tosses her training clothes onto the bed. It’d been an old outfit, one that consisted of her jeans and a shirt that Eldris had let her borrow when she’d started training with Leliana. It’d been a long time since she’d had any lessons with the rouge, and she was both looking forward to and dreading the upcoming session with Lysander.

“Very well, miss. How much help would you like?” Anaba asks. Arya shrugs.

“I can dress myself. If you could find a way to secure my hair so it stays out of the way, that’d be lovely, though,” Arya says.

“Of course. Go ahead and get dressed,” Anaba tells her. Arya hesitates for a moment before shucking off the clothes she’d slept in- a shirt she’d borrowed from Cailan. She’d likely have to get something tailor-made eventually; she doubted she could continue to steal his clothes. She dresses quickly, the outfit was low maintenance, and before she knows it she’s seated in front of the vanity with Anaba brushing her hair.

The elven woman is gentle with the brush, and the motions are soothing. Arya’s ears twitch and she lets out a purr, her eyes fluttering shut. Anaba chuckles behind her as she finishes brushing and begins braiding. “Ser Cousland will have our heads for taking so long,” she murmurs.

“Ser Cousland can go stuff it where the sun don’t shine,” Arya mutters, but Anaba is finished soon after.

“Could you show me the way to the courtyard, Anaba? I’m afraid I’m terrible with directions,” Arya asks. Anaba smiles at her.

“Of course. Follow me, miss,” she says, and leads Arya through the castle.

* * *

            Lysander is pacing impatiently in the courtyard. There are four wooden daggers with him, dull blades whose only danger is giving the user a splinter. “There you are! I was beginning to think you’d decided not to show up,” he grumbles. Arya gives him an apologetic grin as Anaba disappears back inside, melting into the shadows.

            “I’m not a morning person,” she admits. He gives her a cursory glance up and down, his eyes lingering on the ill-fitting tunic.

            “I’m not either, usually,” he replies, absentmindedly.

            “So, what are we doing first?” she asks.

            “Stretching, of course. You may not have time before every battle, but this isn’t a battle. It’s training, and if you’re not careful, you can injure yourself,” he tells her.

            “Let me be the first to admit that I’m not very flexible,” she says. He grins at her.

            “That’s okay. It just means I’ll have to help you out,” he says, giving her a mock-seductive look. She laughs, elbowing him.

            “Hey, maybe we can do some private stretching later,” she says, and he grins wickedly.

            “Well, let’s begin, so we can actually get something done,” he says.

            He starts off easily enough, with stretches like he said, that gradually increase in intensity until Arya is sweaty and mostly ready for the actual training to begin. And once it does, Lysander doesn’t hold back. He makes her show him everything Leliana taught her, and then they spar for hours until Arya is bruised and battered and ready to curl up in a ball and never get up. Her entire body hurts, and she’s barely landed any blows on Lysander.

            “You have a good starting point. You’ll have to work hard if you want to do this,” he tells her, once he’s officially concluded the training session.

            “I don’t want to be the best duelist in the world. I just want to be able to keep myself alive,” she points out. He shrugs.

            “Still, if someone came at you right now, you’d have to resort to your spells. If we’re going to hide an apostate at court, we’ll need something better. Especially if you’ll be close to Cailan and Anora. Hell, even if you get close to me. People won’t hesitate to use you as a bargaining chip,” he warns.

            “I know. That’s what I want to prepare for. I don’t want someone to be able to use me against someone I care about, be it you or Cailan or Anora. You all deserve better, and I’d like to be able to go somewhere by myself without an armed guard following me. I was helpless, before, and I never want to be that helpless again,” she says. She thinks again of the long journey from Ostagar and here, and she thinks of how much farther she has to go.

            “I can respect that. I never expected to stay at Highever. After…well, after, I can’t go back. There’s too many ghosts there for me to be able to rest,” he says. Arya reaches out, placing a hand on his shoulder.

            “We’ll get Howe. I’ll do everything in my power to help. I want to see the bastard pay, too, Lysander,” she promises.

            “Well, if you’re on my side, sweetheart, how could we lose?” he asks, pulling her close with a grin. Even though they’re both sweaty and still slightly out of breath, Arya is grinning herself. She rests her head against his shoulder for a moment.

            “We can’t. But in the future, do you think we could start training later in the day? I’m exhausted all over again,” she complains. He ruffles her hair.

            “If you don’t mind, maybe the two of us can meet at night, and get all disheveled in a way that’s much more fun,” he suggests, a twinkle in his eyes.

            “Oh, I don’t think I’d mind,” Arya says, letting her eyes drift up and down his form as she steps back. He laughs, and then pushes her towards the door.

            “Go on inside and get cleaned up, kitten,” he says.

            “Kitten?” she asks.

            “Do you not like it? Should I call you something else?” he asks.

            She shrugs. “With that voice, you can call me anything you like,” she says. He flashes a wicked grin at her.

            “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.

* * *

            After a long bath and a fresh change of clothes later, she is led to Loghain’s private study. A lunch is set out for the two of them, and Loghain is waiting for her.

            “Sit, make yourself comfortable,” he says, gesturing at the chair across from her. She sits down, and a servant pours her a glass of wine before excusing himself.

            “So, how do you want to do this? I can answer questions, or just tell you what I know,” Arya asks.

            “You mentioned Flemeth, in your story,” Loghain says.

            “I…yes, it is a complicated situation,” Arya replies, taking a sip of the wine. She has a feeling that she’ll want something stronger by the end of the conversation.

            “I met the old witch, once. I was with Maric,” he murmurs, so softly Arya almost didn’t hear him. He sounded so sad for a moment, and Arya can see the old grief of Maric’s death still lingering. After a few moments of silence, he seems to shake off his old ghosts, and continues. “When I met her, I knew nothing of her aside from the legends. I didn’t trust her,” he finished, and his voice was louder.

            “There are few who would trust her. That is, perhaps, the wisest course of action,” Arya remarks, trailing her finger along the grain of the wood. A ghost of a smile flickers across Loghain for a moment, so fleeting she is sure she missed it.

            “Could you tell me more about her?” he asks, and Arya nods. She takes another sip from her wine before she begins speaking.

            “I don’t know anything about Flemeth the woman. Not well, anyway. I could go on for a lifetime about Mythal, or the fragment of her that possessed Flemeth. She saved me from a life of misery and slavery, and she gave me a choice. I chose to give myself to her. I swore to serve her for all of eternity, across that life and any that followed it. And Creators help me, I loved her. She was a mother to me, and I think she loved me too. But she was murdered by her husband. She was…she was love and justice and hope, and he was vengeance and fire and anger. It was bound to happen eventually. She had a temple in the Arbor Wilds, and as far as I know, it’s still standing. It was home to the vir’abelasan. A friend and I held the temple gates until they were sealed. I don’t know the rest of the story firsthand, but I’ll tell you what I know,” she says.

            “I’d like that,” Loghain says, and so Arya continues.

            “Flemeth was a woman, crying out in the dark, long after the fall of Arlathan and the creation of the Veil. And whatever was left of Mythal heard her. What was left clawed and crawled her way through the ages to get to Flemeth and I…I think time has been unkind to them both. There isn’t much of Mythal left, but whatever there is, Flemeth is her vessel. She sensed me, back on Earth, and she spent seventeen years with a ritual to bring me back. There’s got to be a reason, but she has yet to tell me what it is. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough,” Arya says, and she can feel Bellanaris throbbing in her mind for a moment, she can feel the memories swirling and burning. She brings a hand up to her head and rubs at her temples for a moment, suddenly exhausted.

            It is silent for a long time, before Loghain meets her gaze and gives her a nod of respect. “Then I thank you, Arya, for telling me this story. Old ghosts are never easy to lay to rest. It’s getting late, though, well past lunch, and I’m sure we both have other things to attend to,” he says. She glances at the lunch that lay untouched on the table. She doesn’t feel hungry.

            “Of course. I’ll see you later, Loghain. If you need to speak with me again, you know where my room is. I’m always willing to talk,” she says, and then excuses herself, stepping out into the hallway. She isn’t entirely sure where she is, or where she should go next, so she wanders through the hallways, taking the chance to explore. The palace is much bigger than she anticipated, and the corridors all look the same. Soon, she is hopelessly lost, but she doesn't mind. She passes servants frequently, and should she need help, she could always ask. Eventually, though, she runs into Anora, just past the kitchens.

            “Oh! Arya! What are you doing here?” Anora asks.

            “I’m just wandering around the palace. I’m not even entirely sure where here is,” she admits. Anora smiles at her.

            “You’re near the servant’s quarters. I was coming to check on Anaba,” Anora tells her.

            “Oh? Why? Did something happen?” Arya asks.

            “No, nothing like that. I just want to see if she’s settling into palace life. I know what she did, and I know why she did it. I'd like to say it's hard to believe that Lord Vaughn would do such a thing, but unfortunately it isn't. If it were up to me, I'd have let her return to the alienage and her family. There would have been an uproar of people calling for her blood. This was the best option for her,” she answers.

            “Ah, that makes sense. She seemed well-adjusted this morning, if a bit shocked that I’m elven. Still, I feel bad for her. She shouldn't have to suffer because she did what was right. If I had been Anaba, I'd have killed Vaughn, too. She was...incredibly bitter about the whole thing. Not that I blame her. I'd be bitter too. Speaking of, I was going to ask you about Anaba,” she replies, falling into step next to Anora.

            “Yes, it makes sense that she’d be shocked. Everyone else is, as well, although many of them would be too polite to mention it. By the way, if any of them treat you differently, let me know. But, what did you want to ask me?” Anora says.

            “I doubt anyone would be so rude as to outright treat me badly. Anyway, I was wondering if Anaba could be my personal servant. She might be more comfortable working for another elf than she would for a human, and I'm pretty low maintenance. I'm sure she has nothing but contempt for most nobility, considering her background, so we'd likely avoid some sort of incident this way,” Arya replies. Anora shrugs.

            “I'll consider the offer, after speaking with Anaba. You are right that she doesn't like most of us, not that I can blame her. I think it would make her a lot more comfortable if she could work for you. The two of you might even become friends. If anyone can get past that barbed personality, it's you. Anyway, I believe Lysander was looking for you a few minutes ago,” she mentions.

            “Oh? Why? It wasn't too long ago that I spoke with him,” she asks.

            “I believe he wanted to show you another way to get some exercise, likely in some dark hallway,” she says, a smile pulling the corner of her lips upwards. Arya can feel herself blushing, although she tries to fight it.

            “Of course he did. Where can I find him?” she asks.

            “The best bet would probably be to head to your rooms. He’ll find you eventually,” Anora tells her. Arya sighs.

            “I’m so lost right now I don’t know if I’ll ever find them again,” she complains.

            “Go to the end of the hall, take a left, go up the stairs, and take a right. Yours is, I believe, the third room down,” Anora tells her, unable to hide her grin.

            “…Thank you. Oh, by the way, before I forget, would you like to get together and talk sometime? I mean, it’d be a good idea if we want whatever’s going on to work, but also…I thought maybe you might like a friend. Lysander’s the only other noble I’ve seen around here, and he doesn’t seem like the kind you’d gossip with over tea or whatever it is that you like to do in your free time,” Arya offers.

            “I’d appreciate that. I’ll find you eventually, when I’ve got time. And when I’m sure you’re the only one in your chambers,” Anora says, eyes glinting in amusement. Arya turns scarlet.

            “Yes, well, I’ll talk to you later, bye,” she says, and hurries off, her shoes clacking on the stone floors as she makes a beeline for her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had this chapter written for awhile, but thanks to some computer problems i couldn't post it. anyway, i'm partially through with the next chapter and hope to have it up soon. let me know what you think my dudes!!!


	28. don't you dream impossible dreams?

            Eventually she makes her way to her room and eventually Lysander finds her there. He has cleaned up well, or maybe he’s just pretty. Arya welcomes him into her room without hesitation, offering him a seat. He stretches out on her couch, one leg stretched out over it, the other dangling off the edge.

“I heard you were looking for me,” she says, after a couple of seconds.

“I was,” he tells her, crossing his arms behind his head.

“I got lost in the castle. I didn’t want to bother Loghain with asking for directions and I don’t know my way around,” she explains, settling down in an armchair by the fire, tugging it until it faced the couch.

“That must have been an adventure in itself,” he says, and she grins at him.

“It was. If it weren’t for Anora giving me directions, I doubt I’d have found my room,” she says. He chuckles, and the room falls silent for a few minutes.

Suddenly, he sits up. “Listen, I know I was…forward, earlier. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t making you uncomfortable,” he says, his hands clasped together.

“You didn’t. I’d have let you know,” she assures him.

“All right. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t uncomfortable. Some people think I’m too forward,” he explains.

“I didn’t think so. I might if I weren’t interested, but I am. You’re pretty enough, and seem like someone I could get along with,” she says. He grins at her, a wicked, predatory grin.

“Does Cailan not treat you well, kitten?” he asks.

“He does. A little too well, sometimes, but I can’t exactly complain,” she says.

“Oh? What do you mean by that?” he asks.

“He’s just…gentle,” she says. There is a moment where his brows are tilted down in confusion before he understands, and a grin blossoms across his face. He throws back his head and laughs, and it is a bright happy sound that makes the room feel warmer.

“You like someone with a little teeth,” he says, once he has his laughter under control. Arya is blushing, the tips of her ears red, but she nods.

“Yeah. Morrigan was always much rougher than Cailan. It was something I picked up pretty quick my first time with him,” Arya explains.

“I can understand that. Rough is good, sometimes,” Lysander says.

“What about you?” she asks.

“I like a lot of things. I have a feeling I’ll like you, too,” he says, and there is a smug and cocky grin on his face. She laughs.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Casanova,” she says.

“What did you call me?” he asks, his brow furrowing again.

“Ah, that’s right, you don’t have that word here. Well, maybe one day I’ll tell you,” she says, a teasing glint in her eyes.

“How cruel,” Lysander says, but he cannot fight his grin.

“Anyway, was there anything else you wanted to talk about? You spent a lot of time tracking me down,” Arya asks, changing the subject.

“Sort of. I wanted to ask what kind of relationship you expected to have with me,” he answers.

“I…I’m not sure. I wasn’t expecting much to come out of this- things never work out that good for me. I like you, though, and so far I like Anora, too. If we worked at it I think all four of us could make something nice,” she says.

Lysander leans back again. “I never expected to have any sort of lasting relationship with someone,” he says.

“Oh? Why not?” she asks. He shrugs.

“I was expecting an arranged marriage from my parents. A loveless marriage isn’t exactly set up to last. And once Howe betrayed us, I never expected to think about anything else,” he explains.

“What about Anora?” Arya asks.

“She was supposed to be a one-time thing. It turned into a two-time thing, then a three-time thing, and then she said it would last until we went after Howe,” he tells her.

“And now?” Arya asks. There is a faint smile on his face as he meets her gaze with his own.

“Now? I’m thinking about sticking around for some time yet,” he tells her. Arya smiles faintly.

“Well, regardless of Anora, I’d appreciate your company,” she says.

“Oh? Then I think I’m definitely going to stay, kitten. I can see a bright future with you in it,” he says, and her grin grows.

“Is that so?” she asks, throwing her legs over the side of the armchair. It wasn’t very ladylike, but Arya had never been concerned about that, and she was less so when she was around Lysander.

“You make it easy to dream about domesticity,” he tells her, and there is something almost sacred in that confession.

“Domesticity would be nice. I have a feeling it wouldn’t fit, at least not for you,” she says.

“You know me so well. No, domesticity probably wouldn’t fit, not in the long-term. I’d like to do something meaningful. But a wife and kids to come home to might not be so bad,” he says. She crosses her arms behind her head and turns her gaze up to the ceiling, where the shadows cast by the firelight dance.

“A family would be nice. You know, even before, I never expected a normal, apple pie lifestyle. I always thought I’d be too…restless to get tied down like that,” she admits.

“I can understand that. Although, for what it’s worth, I think Cailan’s a good fit for that. He likes adventure too, although I doubt he’s so restless as he is hungry for glory. Of course, maybe if we all manage to make this work, it’ll be even better,” he says.

“Oh? How so?” she asks.

“I could take you out for nice, romantic dates that include knives and killing things,” he says, and she doesn’t have to look at him to see the grin on his face.

“Aren’t you just a man after my own heart?” she says, and there is an easy grin on her face, too. It hasn’t been this easy to smile in a long time.

“I try, kitten, I try,” he says. She laughs, but then she flips herself out of the chair, stretching. “Something the matter?” he asks, his eyes following her across the room.

“Not really. It’s just…this is all so…different. God, I can’t believe laying around has gotten different and strange for me. I used to do nothing but lay around in my bedroom, back home,” she says, moving towards the window. There are no sounds that warn her of his approach, only the slight movement behind her before his hands are resting lightly on her waist.

“Do you miss it?” he asks.

“Sometimes, when I’ve got time to just think. It was easier to ignore while I was traveling. There was always something that needed my attention, always something more pressing. I don’t think I’ve really taken the time to decompress and just think about all the implications. I lost my entire life,” she says, as if it were suddenly just hitting her. Lysander’s grip tightens, and he pulls her closer, resting his chin on his shoulder.

“I’m here, in whatever capacity you need me,” he says. She smiles, although there is still something sad in her expression.

“In that case, can we watch Netflix? I want to watch Bob’s Burgers. It’ll cheer me up,” she says. He steps back, ruffling her hair affectionately.

“Of course, kitten. But it’s not good to bottle up your emotions like that. It’s okay to feel them,” he tells her. She snorts.

“Are you trying to say you don’t do the same thing?” she asks.

“Hey, do as I say, not as I do,” he says, and she laughs, taking his hand and pulling him over to the bed. She trips on the rug, falling backwards onto the mattress, and Lysander is pulled along with her. He lands with his arms on either side of her head, his legs straddling her waist.

“I could get used to having you above me,” she says, slightly breathless. After a moment recovering from the shock, Lysander grins.

“I could get used to this, too, kitten,” he replies, that cocky grin on his face.

“Mmm, why waste the opportunity?” she asks, letting her fingers thread through his belt.

“What about whatever it was you wanted to watch?” he asks. She grins up at him.

“That can wait,” she answers.

“So can you, kitten,” he says, “I’d rather do this with Cailan or Anora around the first time.” She leans up, bracing herself on her elbows.

“That makes sense. It’ll probably work out better, anyway,” she agrees, letting her hands fall.

He lets out a hum and sits back. “Not that I would appreciate the chance to spend hours between those pretty thighs of yours, but that’s a tangled mess I’d like to avoid,” he tells her.

“Makes sense. I’m sure we’ll get the chance sometime,” she says, stretching out. Her backpack is on the other side of the bed, and it takes little movement to pull her laptop out.

“So, what’s this thing you want to watch?” he asks.

She grins at him. “It’ll be easier to show you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried to talk myself into waiting at least until tomorrow to post this but here we are. hope you enjoy it!! let me know what you think~


	29. twinkle twinkle, lucky star

Despite Lysander’s warnings, Arya continued to bottle up almost all of her emotions. She spent a nice hour with him, curled up on the bed watching Netflix, and then, after fixing her hair and making sure she looked presentable, the two of them headed down to dinner. She’d have never made it if she hadn’t followed him, and when they got there, Anora and Cailan were already there, at the head of the table. Lysander and Arya took their seats next to them, Cailan reaching out and squeezing her hand. She flashes him a smile as a plate is laid out in front of her.

“Eldris and the others will be joining us in the morning. We needed time to get their rooms ready,” he informs her. A servant fills a wine glass as she shifts in her seat, picking up her fork and twirling it around in her hands.

“Do they have any idea where they want to go next?” she asks.

“I’m not sure. I plan on recommending Orzammar, though,” he tells her.

“Why’s that?” she asks.

“It’ll give us enough time to get things settled here. I’m going to be in meetings all day tomorrow, thanks to my extended absence. Not that I regret anything, mind you,” he says, giving her a smile. She grins back and takes a sip of the wine. The food was standard Fereldan fare- roast meat and stewed vegetables. Unfortunately, it was incredibly bland. She was going to have to venture into the kitchens herself later at night and make something with more flavor- or any flavor at all.

“So, what time will they arrive?” she asks, making a face at the vegetables on her plate.

“Early. Likely right after dawn. Would you like to join us in the war room?” he asks.

“I’m going to regret being woken up that early, but yes. If they’re going to Orzammar I need to be there. I’ve got information they need to know, especially when they decide who’s going to go,” she says.

“All right, I’ll make sure to notify someone. Would you like to stay with me? I can send word to Anaba so she can lay out an outfit and everything. The meeting with the Wardens would be the first of the day,” he asks, and Arya very pointedly ignores the lewd look Lysander is sending her.

“Yeah, that’d be nice. I was going to try and find someone to bunk with anyway,” she says, rubbing at her wrist nervously.

“Are the nightmares bad?” Cailan asks, his voice soft.

She nods. “Worse than I was expecting,” she admits, finally picking at her food.

“Well, with three of us, surely there’s someone you can always bunk with,” he says, almost cheerfully. Arya rolls her eyes.

“He is right. If this arrangement works, Lysander and I would also be available. If sleeping alone is a problem for you, we can make sure it never has to happen,” Anora chimes in.

“I’d appreciate that. They’re worse when I’m alone,” she says softly, and Lysander grins at her across the table.

“We can’t have that, kitten. We’ll make sure someone’s always with you,” he promises. There is a lapse in conversation then, as Cailan calls over a servant to send a message to Anaba. They fall into an easy silence, broken by light conversation, until they part ways after supper, Lysander and Anora going to their separate rooms. Arya follows Cailan up the stairs, her arm linked through his.

“Would you like a bath before bed?” he asks, navigating through the corridors with ease.

“When don’t I want a bath before bed?” she answers, teasingly. He laughs, leaning over and pressing a quick kiss to her temple.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand why you’re so…clean,” he says, his nose wrinkling fondly.

“Well, there are different hygiene standards in my world. A bath a day is customary. Although I have some ideas. Maybe we could use fire runes in a showerhead to keep the water warm. There’d have to be an elaborate as hell pipe system, but maybe someone would be able to do it,” she says.

“What in the Maker’s name is a showerhead?” he asks, perplexed.

“It’s the part of the shower that the water comes out of,” she responds.

“And what’s a shower?”

She grins. “It’s like…a miniature waterfall inside. It’s a bath, but standing up. It’s so much quicker and so much nicer,” she says.

“That definitely sounds like something to look into. It’ll probably be expensive, but if we can build a prototype that works, perhaps the trend would catch on,” he says.

“I would literally sell my soul to the devil if we could make showers popular in Thedas. We also need some sort of water purification system. It’ll cut down on water-borne illnesses, and it’s better for us in general,” she says.

“With your help, we could likely get a lot more inventions in Thedas,” he tells her, as they reach his rooms. Anaba is stepping out as they approach.

“Mistress, I’ve laid out outfits for in the morning and to sleep in tonight. Is there anything else I can do for you?” Anaba asks.

“No, thank you, Anaba. We’re going to head to the baths though, so if you could send word to have them filled, that would be wonderful,” Cailan says. Anaba narrows her eyes, glancing at Arya.

“Very well, Your Majesty,” she says, ducking away and hurrying off down the corridor.

“She seems very wary of us all,” Cailan remarks.

“I don’t blame her. She was in the dungeon for killing a noble man,” Arya says.

“I…was unaware of that. I’m sure Anora will brief me in the morning,” he says, and Arya nods, unwilling to say anything else. Anaba’s story is her own to tell; she’s not going to spread it around.

* * *

            After gathering up their clothes and heading towards the bathing chambers, it’s entirely deserted aside from a single servant preparing the baths. “Greetings, Your Majesty. The water should be ready now,” he says, bowing politely.  


            “Thank you. We may be a while- do you think you could keep others out?” he asks.

            “Of course,” the servant replies, nodding again before making a hasty retreat towards the door, letting it shut behind them.

            “Cailan! You didn’t have to kick everyone else out. I’ve gotten over a lot of my modesty traveling with everyone else,” Arya says, but there is a faint smile on her face as Cailan drops their pajamas on a shelf near the bath before pushing her against the wall, his arms on either side of her.

            “Maybe I just don’t want to share you right now,” he says, pressing a kiss to her lips before pressing another to her throat.

            “I…oh,” she says, her hands gripping the loose cloth of his tunic. He chuckles against her neck, pulling back enough to rest his forehead against hers.

            “That is, if you want to,” he says. She bites her lip.

            “There’s something else I want to try,” she says. He furrows his brow.

            “Be my guest. If I don’t like it, I’ll stop you,” he promises. She grins at him and kneels down, her fingers inching towards the waistband on his trousers.

            “If I’m not completely terrible at this, I think you’ll like it,” she says, her eyes twinkling as she tugs them down. He’s already half hard, his hands braced against the walls.

            “You don’t have to,” he tells her, gasping as she leans forward and runs her tongue along his length.

            “Darling, I don’t have to do anything. I want to do this. With you,” she says, and when she takes him into her mouth his hand comes down and tangles itself in her hair.

            “Maker, I love you,” he says. She stops for a moment, her lips curved up in a grin.

            “I love you too,” she murmurs, before her head dips down again.

* * *

_An elven girl with dark hair and bright eyes runs through the dirty streets of an alienage, an elven boy on her heels. “You won’t catch me, Lan,” she calls out, laughing, nearly tripping over her skirts. Adults watch from their doors or their clotheslines, faint smiles on their faces as the children run and play. Life wasn’t easy in the alienage, but nothing worth doing was._   


* * *

_A year later, the same elven girl and the same elven boy run through the streets together. The atmosphere is heavier, this time, and the boy is keeping pace with the girl. “We have to tell Papa!” the boy calls out, and the girl skids to a stop in front of their house, wrenching the door open far harder than necessary in her panic._   


_“Papa! The humans are coming!” she calls out. An elven man leans down in front of her and pushes her hair out of her face. It is only then that she realizes it had come undone from the bun she usually wore it in._

_“Take your brother and get in the cellar,” he tells her, pressing a dagger into her hand. She nods firmly, still out of breath, but she ushers the boy into the cellar and climbs down after him. The door locks above them, and she can hear her father pulling the rug over the door. “Don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe,” he says, his voice sharp with fear and anger before she can hear his steps leading away, towards the door. She ushers her brother deeper into the cellar and stands in front of him, the knife clutched in her hands. That is the last time she ever sees her father alive._

* * *

_Three years later, the elven girl has been sold into slavery. A young nobleman bought her from the slavers that killed her father, and there are days when she shivers with the anger of it all, her throat tight with it. They’d found her pressed into the corner of the cellar, her brother behind her and her face smeared with mud and tears as she faced them down. She fought, of course, she always would, there was no changing that, but the humans took her so easily, and she had been separated from her brother. Her new master had no need for a boy, he said, but a pretty girl like her would make a nice addition to his home._   


_The other slaves were kind. They were elven, too, more girls than boys, and they assured her that her brother had gone to a good master. They knew what it was like to be new, and angry and scared and lost all at once. She was far angrier than she was scared, and one day when another girl asked her how she’d gotten captured, she turned around and punched the wall, the rough stone scraping the skin off her knuckles._

_She had been hauled to her master’s study and dumped in front of him. “What do you have to say for yourself, Bella?” he asks, his voice cold and controlled. Her lips turn up in a snarl._

_“It was the wall or the girl. I thought you’d take less offense to the wall, but I can always go after the girl,” she answers._

_“You cannot keep acting like this. It doesn’t suit your pretty face,” he says, and she bites back an insult. There is nothing she can do with a broken hand and bloodied knuckles, so she lets the slave master lead her away._

* * *

_The first time her master hit her, she tasted blood for a week afterwards. She did nothing to cover up the bruise, defiantly angry even after others questioned her. The anger boiled just underneath her skin, white-hot and blinding at times. The other slaves avoid her, as do the servants, and she does her job only as much as she must._   


_One night he gets drunk and he hits her again before he kisses her rough, his fingers digging into the soft tissue of her breast. She exploded with magic she didn’t know she possessed, leaving a dark scorch mark on the floor. She stole his money and ran, never looking back._

* * *

   


            Arya wakes with a soft gasp, sitting up in the bed. Dawn is breaking across the horizon, and it is likely only a few minutes before servants would wake them for the day. There is a moment in between breaths when she does not know who she is, where she doesn’t recognize herself or the man lying next to her, and her heart hammers wildly in her chest. By her next breath, she remembers, everything coming back to her so suddenly it leaves her breathless. Cailan shifts beside her, the covers falling away as he brushes his hair out of her face.  


            “What’s the matter?” he asks. “Dreams?”

            She nods, her hand pressed to her stomach as it rolls uneasily. “Yeah. Worse than I expected. It’s nothing unusual, though,” she says. He lets out a muffled noise and pulls her closer, his arm wrapped around her waist. She smiles despite herself, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

            “The servants will be by to wake us soon,” she murmurs, running her fingers through his hair.

            “That’ll be later,” he says, shifting deeper into the sheets. She smiles and lets out a quiet purr, settling down with him.


	30. sea of heartbreak

            The others were already in the war room by the time Arya and Cailan were able to join them, Loghain pensively gazing out the window. “Oh, you’ve finally arrived. Can we get started? We’ve got a lot of ground to cover today, boy,” Loghain says. Brett stands next to him, giving Arya a friendly smile as she enters.

Cailan nods, walking over to the table and leaning over the map. Arya grabs a plate of breakfast, with enough food for them to share, before moving to stand between him and Eldris. The other elf’s brow furrows as he observes the map, pointing at two places opposite each other. She notices that he and Alistair are wearing their armor, and Morrigan is wearing an outfit that Arya had never seen before, but it was one that let her blend in more easily with everyone else.

            “Right, so we’ve got two groups left to approach in aid against the Blight. There’s the elves in the Brecilian, and the dwarves in Orzammar. Zathrian’s clan should still be in forest- she usually settles for long periods of time deep in the woods, especially this close to winter. Since winter’s coming, no matter where we go, we’ll likely have to stay until spring. The elves might not appreciate it. Alternatively, we can head down to Orzammar, and spend the winter underground. Arya, do you have any insight into what we’ll be facing in either location?” he asks. Arya hastily puts down the pastry she’d been eating, taking a quick swallow of milk, and clears her throat. She glances over at Morrigan, who lingers in one of the corners, and the witch nods encouragingly at her.

            “I recommend Orzammar. There was a lot to deal with there…before, so you may end up being busy for most of the winter anyway. There are several problems in the city you’ll be asked to help with, ones that Grey Wardens shouldn’t necessarily involve themselves in, but if that’s what it takes, that’s what it takes. The elves have issues of their own, but you said they may not appreciate having guests during the winter, and I doubt their problems will be as severe. They should be fine to outlast the winter, even if the situation is the same, but Orzammar’s state will likely only deteriorate. It’s best to deal with it first,” she answers, clasping her hands behind her back.

            “What sort of state was Orzammar in? What do we need to prepare for?” Alistair asks, glancing down at the maps. Arya sighs, one hand moving up to fidget with the necklace she wore.

            “Obviously, I’m not sure how accurate this is. I was wrong before, with Redcliffe, so maybe luck will be with us and Orzammar will be in a better state. As it was, though, the previous king had died and the line of succession was muddied. His son, Bhelen stood to inherent the throne through blood, but it’s said that Harrowmont was named the successor while the king was on his deathbed. Naturally, it’s led to a political struggle between the two of them. The city can’t promise aid when there’s no king to grant it, so you had to pick one of them to support and go through a series of tasks to garner enough support for them from the Assembly. This included a Proving, which likely won’t be an issue for any of you, as well as taking down a crime lord named Jarvia before venturing into the Deep Roads in search of the Paragon Branka. The last one is what’s difficult- and a problem,” she replies. She doesn’t remember everything leading up to the last section that well- and she doesn’t remember much about finding Branka, only that the broodmother gave her nightmares for weeks. She was surprised they hadn’t resurfaced, considering it was very likely to be a real problem soon.

            “How is it a problem? Is there something in the Deep Roads we aren’t prepared to face?” Alistair asks her. She frowns, biting her bottom lip.

            “Well, sort of. Did Duncan ever tell you about broodmothers?” she says.

            “What in the Void is a broodmother?” Eldris asks, crossing his arms over his chest. Arya almost smiles, despite herself

            “Only that they’re a rare type of darkspawn found in the Deep Roads by those that are unlucky,” Alistair says, “I don’t remember anything else, if he mentioned it.”

            “Broodmothers used to be people. Women. Something happens, somehow, and the darkspawn turn them into the broodmothers that birth more darkspawn continuously,” she answers, shuddering. The thought that she was now in a world where those _things_ were real hit her suddenly, and she shifted closer to Cailan, brushing up against him for comfort.

            “How is this a problem?” Morrigan asks, speaking for the first time since the meeting started. She looks almost as unsettled by the thought as Arya feels.

            “It means that only men should go to Orzammar, just in case. We’ll likely have to wait until the others can join us from Kinloch so you can have a full force, but that shouldn’t take more than a week,” she says, letting out a breath.

            “That can be arranged. There’s a few things in the city that it gives us time to take care of, and it’ll let us restock,” Eldris answers, dragging a hand through his hair.

            “Is there anything else we need to go over in this meeting?” Loghain asks, moving from the window to stand at the end of the table.

            “No. We’ll meet again once the others arrive from Kinloch, but until then there’s no use in worrying about anything,” Alistair answers. Loghain nods.

            “Very well, then you’re all dismissed, except for Cailan,” Loghain says. The others start to filter out, but Arya takes a moment to give Cailan a soft peck on the cheek. His brow is furrowed already, his lips turned downwards in a frown as he thinks ahead.

            “Good luck,” she tells him, softly. He smiles, rolling his eyes fondly.

            “Thank you, darling. Your moral support is astounding,” he replies, but he kisses her gently before nudging her towards the door.

            “Whatever would you do without me?” she asks, glancing back over her shoulder.

            “I don’t know how I’d manage,” he responds, humor glinting in his eyes. Arya shakes her head fondly before heading out in the hallway, where Morrigan waits for her, a bemused smirk on her face.

            “You are absolutely smitten,” she teases.

            “Yes, but not just with Cailan,” Arya answers, linking her arm through Morrigan’s.

            “Flatterer,” she answers fondly. Arya grins and leads the way through the hallways. Confusing as they are, she’s able to find her bedroom from the war room without difficulty.

            Lysander was waiting for her when she opened the door. She stopped just inside the door, Morrigan unlinking their arms. The curtains were drawn tight, leaving the room dark except for the fire flickering in the fireplace. He’d been pacing back in front of it, but stopped when the door opened, leaving him silhouetted in the light. He takes a step towards her, something dark and wild in his eyes.

            “Arya? Can I talk to you? It’s about something important,” he says. Arya shares a bewildered look with Morrigan.

            “I…Of course, Lysander,” she says, walking forward. Morrigan hesitates, but follows her anyway, letting the door shut behind her.

            “Who’s your friend?” he asks, his gaze turning to the witch. Morrigan crosses her hands over her chest and does her best to look bored.

            “Lysander, this is Morrigan. Morrigan, this is Lysander,” Arya says, glancing between the two of them almost cautiously.

            “Arya? Could you come with me? This is…private. Personal,” he says, his face softening a little. He looks almost pleadingly at her, and she sighs.

            “Oh, fine. Morrigan, I’ll be back soon,” she promises, turning to the witch. Morrigan gives her a soft smile.

            “Very well. I’m sure I’ll find something to occupy myself in here,” she says. Arya rolls her eyes, but then Lysander is standing at the door, almost vibrating with impatience. She heads after him, closing the door behind her as he leads her down the hall and into his room, where he resumes pacing.

            She can’t stop herself from looking around as moves to stand by the couch, hesitant to sit down. While there weren’t many personal items of Lysander’s in the room- she imagined he didn’t have many left from when he fled Highever- the room still offered her glimpses into his personality. There was a small pile of clothes in the corner next to the room, shiny chainmail on an armor stand by the door, a sword hung over the fireplace that glinted with runes etched into the surface, and a blanket spread haphazardly over the bed. It was old and faded, the edges frayed, and she guessed that he’d had it for awhile

 “So, what’s the problem? You seem pretty worked up,” Arya asks, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

“You know about Howe, don’t you? About how he betrayed me, killed my family?” he asks her, stopping and looking at her.

“I don’t know everything, but I know enough, yes,” she says, crossing her arms.

There is a moment before he answers, a stillness that hangs heavy between them. She isn’t sure what she’s expecting when he answers, but his face hardens again in that heartbeat stretching between them and whatever it is she knows it will not be good.

“I want to go after him. I want you to come with me, and I want to gut the bastard for what he did to the Couslands,” Lysander says.


	31. young and menace

     “Lysander, are you certain? Do you even have a plan?” Arya asks, reaching out and putting her hand on his shoulder. He tenses, stilling under her touch, and he doesn’t quite meet her eyes. Her heart is beating fast, and she feels like she is standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering towards the abyss.

     “Enough of one. Howe is in Highever right now, but he won’t be there much longer. If we want to do this, we’ll have to leave now. I know the castle well enough that we can stay hidden. Please, Arya, don’t make me do this alone,” he pleads, his dark eyes staring helplessly into hers. A thousand different senarios run through her head of all the terrible ways this could end, and she feels anxiety pooling in the pit of her stomach. She knows Lysander will go, with or without her. She also knows that she is afraid of what he may become.

     “That’s a terrible plan, Lysander. And why would you come to me? There are others much more skilled in combat and stealth. I know a little magic, and that it’s. Surely someone else would be a better choice,” she asks, her voice low, as her hand drops back down to her side. Lysander paces away from her and leans against the window, his fingers drumming on the sill.

     “Because I trust you, Arya. I have never, ever been this vulnerable in my entire life. You’re the only one I trust to go with me and not try to stop me. Cailan and Anora, for all they’ve promised me, will only speak of honor and letting the courts bring him to justice. But the courts haven’t seen the things I’ve seen. The courts won’t avenge my family. I trust you to let me do what I need to do without letting me go over the line. I trust you to have my back in this. And you’re skilled enough that I know you can keep yourself safe. I know Highever. I know Howe. I can get us in and out, and this is something I need to do,” he sighs, his voice ragged with desperation. She crosses her arms over her chest, feeling sick to her stomach.

     “Lysander, you cannot seriously expect me to walk into Highever with you and your half-cocked plan without telling someone else. At the very least, let me tell Morrigan. I can’t risk something like this without someone like her knowing. At the very most, we could bring Anaba along with us, if she’ll go. She’s skilled enough to kill Lord Vaughn, and I’m sure she’d help us. If you don’t want her to go, that’s fine, I can understand that, but if we leave together, I’m telling _someone_ ,” she says, running a hand through her hair. She can’t help but feel that she is making one of the worst decisions of her entire life. She knows she might want the same, were she in Lysander’s shoes, but she can’t help but think that she is risking everything for a boy she barely knows.

            “Very well. Tell them both, for all I care, but this is something I want to do with as little help as possible. We need to leave today, though, or there’s a very large chance that Howe will be gone,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest and staring resolutely out the window.

            “Fine. I hope you know what we need. I can pack my own clothes, and I can take some of the load for you, but I’m still pretty damn clueless about all of this. I’ll go tell Morrigan and I’ll find Anaba and let her know. You can be in charge of provisions, as well. We’ll be gone for near a week, but it’d be suspicious if both of us decided to raid the larder. And, besides, you know what we’ll need,” she tells him. He nods, and his hand cups her cheek for a moment, tilting her face up to look at him. His eyes are wide, shining with worry and anger and desperation, but there’s relief there, too.

            “Thank you, Arya. You don’t know what this means to me,” he murmurs. She puts her hand over his, worry pulling her lips down into a frown. She thinks, for a moment, about leaning up those few inches and pressing her lips to his.

            “It’s us against the world, I suppose,” she says, and she tries to give him an easy grin. She thinks of the quick kiss she pressed against Cailan’s cheek a few minutes earlier, and she wonders if he’ll forgive her for what she’s about to do.

            “I suppose it is,” he answers, a faint smile on his face before he lets his hand drop. He nods towards the door, and after a moment, she leaves, padding down the hallway to her own room. Morrigan is curled up on the corner of the couch, Arya’s sketchbook in her lap, when she opens the door.

            “I was unaware that you were an artist,” she remarks, her golden eyes shining in the flickering candlelight.

            “I have to tell you something. And you can’t tell anyone else, not for a few days,” Arya says, the words leaving her in a rush. Morrigan closes the sketchbook, setting it aside.

            “Very well. You have my word,” she says, simply, putting her chin in her hand.

            “Lysander and I are leaving for Highever. Howe’s there, and will be for a couple of days, and Lysander says this is something he needs to do. I wanted to tell you in case things go south while we’re there. I wanted someone to know where we were, what we were doing. Cailan can’t know, under any circumstances, until we’ve had enough of a head start that he won’t be able to catch us,” she explains, strangely breathless. Morrigan regards her for a few moments, her head tilted to the side.

            “You are aware that storming Highever’s castle is suicide, yes?” the witch asks, an air of aloofness about her. Arya can see through it, though, can see how worried Morrigan is about her.

            “We’re not that stupid. He says he knows a way for us to sneak in. I don’t think Howe will kill us immediately- if we don’t return in a week’s time, I suppose you should send someone after us. Actually, don’t quote me on that, I’m not sure how long it should take for us to get there,” she sighs.

            “If the two of you insist upon doing something so foolish, allow me to give you a parting gift,” she says, pursing her lips and rising gracefully from the couch.

            “A parting gift?” Arya asks, her eyebrows raised.

            “Yes. ‘Tis a ring, one enchanted with magic. It will let me know if you’re in trouble, and should the need to find you arise, ‘twill lead me to you. I have its match,” she murmurs, reaching up to cup Arya’s face. She lets her hand rest over Morrigan’s, a faint smile on her face.

            “Thank you, Morrigan. It means a lot to me,” she breathes. The smile Morrigan gives her is soft and sad as she lets her hand drop from her cheek, bringing out the ring from a hidden pocket on her skirt.

            “I would not have my best and only friend go somewhere so dangerous without a way to know if she needs me,” she says, slipping the ring onto Arya’s finger. It is made of wood, gleaming ever so slightly with an enchantment. The surface seems to shift and shimmer, flashing images. She can never quite make out what they are, but it is one of the most beautiful rings she’s ever seen.

            “Thank you, once again, Morrigan. I’m sure it’ll come in quite handy,” she replies, running her thumb across Morrigan’s knuckles.

            “Of course, Arya. Now, I’m sure you need to pack if you’re to leave so quickly. Do you want my assistance?” she asks, her voice brisk. There’s still a wealth of unsaid things lingering in her eyes, but neither of them wants to make this parting any more painful than it already is.

            “I think I can handle it. I’m not gonna need much, and Lysander is in charge of provisions,” she says, suddenly feeling as though she might cry. She knew that there was a risk that she’d never see Morrigan again if she did this with Lysander, but she’d sooner cut her own tongue out before telling him no now.

            “I will go, then, and let you pack in peace. If you have need of me before you leave, I shall be in the library. I will wait three days before I let the others know where you are. I doubt I can stall them forever,” she murmurs. She hesistates, indecision flickering over her features before she leans over, angling her body just so to press her lips against Arya’s. She leans into the kiss, one hand curling in the loose purple fabric of Morrigan’s robes.

            “I’ll be back before we know it,” she promises, breathless, when she finally pulls away.

            “I shall hope so,” she replies, a sad smile on her face, before she sweeps out of the room.

* * *

            It only takes half an hour to finish packing. She would leave wearing her leather armor and the hood Eldris gave her, her daggers strapped to her thighs and her staff across her back. If she was lucky, she could disguise it as a walking stick. In her pack, she had a single spare set of underclothes and her mage robes. There was an overwhelming sense of sorrow and finality about leaving, even though she planned on returning.

            She met Lysander at the stables. He was wearing a hooded traveling cloak, the hood drawn low over his face. He’d saddled two horses, loading one down with supplies. He handed the reins of the smaller horse to Arya.

            “Are we ready to leave?” he asks her. The sun was starting its descent- she knew it wouldn’t be too long before Cailan noticed she was missing. She knew, of course, that he wouldn’t believe it at first. He would assume she was lost somewhere on the palace grounds, either inside or out in the gardens. He’d spend the rest of the evening searching, likely well into the night, before he started branching off and searching the surrounding area. Hopefully, the two of them would be gone lone before then. She takes one last, long look back at the palace

            “I’m ready,” Arya answers, taking a deep breath. He meets her gaze and nods once, boosting her onto the horse and climbing onto his own. With a cluck of his tongue, they were under way, the palace ever so slowly fading into the distance, the reins gripped tight in her hands as she tried to swallow down the lump in her throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i've finally updated this fic. 
> 
> i was considering abandoning it- i had temporarily lost the drive to continue. i have a plan worked out for this fic (and two sequels to follow) and the characters weren't cooperating at the time. i think i've managed to appease them by starting a new story- this should be up in the next few weeks. it'll be another modern insert, featuring annaliese hawking and a focus on morrigan. 
> 
> as such, i hope to have the next chapter of this out shortly in order to make up for how long it's been inbetween updates, but i'm not going to promise anything. i'm hard at work on a fic for the mass effect big bang, and while i think i'm almost done, these things have a way of making a liar out of me. i'm definitely moving this fic up in the list of priorities, though. if you're looking for something to read while you wait, i do have a similiar fic for fallout: new vegas. 
> 
> please leave a comment/review letting me know what you thought- i've been away from this fic for so long i'm not sure how well it fits with the rest of it (not to mention the fact that it's your reviews that keep me inspired. i try to respond to all comments, as well, and even if i don't respond definitely know that i do read and appreciate all of them). as always, i hope you enjoyed, and i'll see you next time!


	32. yesterday we were just children

            “Do you have horses back home like this?” Lysander asks, breaking the silence that had been hanging over them since they rode out of Denerim nearly four hours ago.

            “Sort of. We keep them as pets, but we don’t really need animals like you do now. We have other methods of transportation that are much more efficient. Although I’m sure there are still agricultural needs for them that I’m unaware of, but generally, horses are only a thing for people with quite a bit of money,” she answers, looking around at the scenery. They were somewhere she’d never been before, the horses plodding down a remote, barely-there road. Trees were lining the sides of it, their branches hanging over the path to form a sort of roof. It was beautiful, and focusing on the landscape helped keep her mind from wandering.

            “I suppose that does take away a lot of their use,” he remarks. He glances over at her, his gaze conflicted and guilty. She pretends like she can’t feel his eyes on her.

            “Yeah. For the most part, we generally don’t use animals the same way you do here. Here, a cat is valuable as a mouser, and a dog has a number of uses. Back home, they’re just pets. We have mouse traps, so we don’t need cats to catch them, and our way of life is completely different. It’s not like we need dogs to chase away intruders when we have so many other ways to deter them,” she says, glancing over at him. He shifts his gaze to the road ahead of them, like he hadn’t been watching her the whole time. If she notices, she doesn’t point it out.

            “You make it sound almost like a paradise,” he responds. She laughs, shaking her head.

            “No, it’s far from it. There’s a lot we could do to make our world better. It’s just…different, I suppose. There’s a lot of the same problems dressed up in different clothes, too. Classism is still a problem, racism is still a problem, sexism is still a problem. You’d think humanity would get our shit together at some point,” she says, sighing.

            “Well, maybe it’s not so different after all, then. Same shit, different place,” he tells her, concern shining in his eyes. She laughs, glancing over at him again. She thinks he’s trying to comfort her, to make sure the weight of everything she’d been taken from isn’t pressing down too heavily on her shoulders.

            “Maybe it isn’t. Sometimes none of this feels real. I’ll catch myself thinking that this must all be some dream, and I’ll wake up safe and sound back in my bedroom at home,” she tells him. Her voice is quiet, and the air around them is hushed and still, like the world itself is holding its breath at her confession.

            “Would you ever go back?” he asks her, forcing his voice to be casual. He tells himself to be prepared for the worst, to be prepared for her to tell him that she would leave now if she would. He tries to tell himself it would have nothing to do with him. He is fearful of her answer anyway.

            “I…don’t know. There’s a lot of things I miss from back home, and a lot of people too. But there’s a lot I would miss here, too. I’d miss my magic, for one, and I’d miss everyone I’ve gotten to know so far. I wouldn’t be the same person. And I don’t know if the person I’ve become would like to go back,” she admits. There is some part of her soul screaming _you would never leave here again_ , and there is another part of her soul telling her that _going home is what you want the most_ , and she isn’t quite sure which part to believe.

            “Well, kitten, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you managed to get stuck here. Thedas is better off for having you here,” he tells her, looking over at her. She’s almost close enough to touch, but he knows taking his hands off the reins is a bad idea.

            “Well, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be stuck,” she says, the corners of her mouth curling upwards in a grin.

* * *

     Riding a horse for hours without rest is just as exhausting as Arya remembers. By the time Lysander allows them to stop, it is well past midnight, and everything aches. She needs his help to even get off the horse, her hands clutching his shoulders as his rest on her waist. He lets them linger a few moments longer than necessary, his face hovering inches away from hers. If she wanted, she could lean forward and press a kiss to his lips. It’s an attractive option, but she doesn’t, mostly because her body aches.

            “I feel awful. Everything hurts,” she complains, and he grins at her.

            “Sorry about that, kitten. I could give you a massage once we eat, if you like,” he offers. There’s a flash of guilt in his eyes, and she knows that he’s trying to make up for leading her here.

            “I’d appreciate that, Lysander. What are we eating?” she asks, moving to loop her horse’s reins around a tree.

            “I thought it might be best to go for something that wouldn’t require a fire. We’re still too close to the palace for comfort. Cailan will likely send others out soon, and a fire would just be a beacon. I grabbed a few loaves of bread, some meat, and some cheese. I also managed to sneak out a jug of juice, so it might not be too bad,” he tells her, tying his horse and moving to the packs.

            “Sounds good enough. Thedas has made me a lot less picky when it comes to my meals,” she replies, a faint smile on her face. She tries not to think about all of the things that have been left behind.

            “And how picky were you back home?” he asks, a teasing lilt to his voice as pulls out their bedrolls. He passes them off to her, and begins rummaging around for the food.

            “My mother always told me I was one of the most difficult children to feed that she’d ever seen,” she replies, a faint smile on her face as she moves a few feet away, laying out the bedrolls.

            “I suppose you had more options there,” he remarks, finally pulling out the bag he’d put the food in. They had enough fresh food to last them the next couple of days, by which it would begin to turn stale, and after that they’d be down to eating regular travel rations.

            “I did, yes. It’s not like I can just order a pizza here. Which reminds me, once we’re back in Denerim, how would you feel about trying some of my food? I promise I know what spices are, unlike the rest of Fereldan,” she offers, grinning.

            “It sounds…interesting. I’ll try damn near anything once,” he says, a faint smile on his face. He sits down on his bedroll, dropping the food next to him as he tugs his boots off. He knew taking them off wasn’t the smartest thing, but they were close enough to Denerim that they were safe enough.

            “I’ll have to keep that in mind, Cousland,” she says, flopping down on her bedroll. Her muscles scream in protest, but it feels nice to be sitting still after all that time.

            “I’m sure you will, kitten,” he says, passing her the food.

            Once they’ve eaten and laid around for a few minutes, he stands up on his knees and stretches.

            “All right, kitten, off with the armor,” he orders.

            “Wow, somehow I expected you to be way more smooth about trying to get in my pants,” Arya replies, but she starts fiddling with some of the fastenings.

            “I’m glad you think so highly of me, kitten, but this is because of that massage I promised you. I may be good with my hands, but I’m not that good,” he says, his trademark cocky grin on his face. She rolls her eyes, but soon the armor is piled up next to her bedroll and Lysander slides into place behind her. His hands are gentle, his fingers skimming up her sides before his hands rest on her shoulders. She tilts her head back, her eyes fluttering shut as he sets to work, his fingers working out the knots.

            “You are good with your hands,” she purrs, cracking one eye open almost lazily. She can almost see the cocky grin on his face again as he chuckles.

            “So, you don’t care if I get a little handsy, do you?” he asks, his voice casual and light, but there’s a darker undercurrent that makes liquid heat pool in the pit of her stomach.

            “Right now, I’m down for anything,” she answers. She jumps when he leans down, pressing a kiss against the skin of her throat. She tilts her head to the side, giving him more access, and he chuckles again. His hands trail lower, working at her back, and his lips trail up, his teeth dragging against her ear. When he reaches the tip, she gasps, a shudder going through her body.

            “Do you like that?” he asks, his voice warm and husky. Her hips squirm as she leans back against him, her eyes still shut.

            “You’re nothing but a tease,” she whines. His hands come to a rest on her stomach, his fingers all too close to where she wants them to be.

            “Once we take care of Howe, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll spend some _quality_ time taking care of you,” he promises. She lets out an annoyed huff of breath, shifting until she can see him.

            “You aren’t going to fuck me to get rid of whatever guilt you’re feeling. Not that you should be feeling guilty for asking me to come with you, Lysander. I agreed to come completely willingly. I want to be here, with you, helping you do this because it’s important to you,” she scolds. He sighs, letting his chin drop down to her shoulder.

            “I still feel a little guilty, but I don’t think it’s just because you came with me. Maybe it’s survivor’s guilt. Courage and I were the only ones to survive Howe’s betrayal, and she got hurt and has to stay in the kennels. Maybe I feel guilty because I didn’t bring her with us. Or maybe it really is because I’ve stolen you away from everything else because I can’t let go of this, even though Cailan and Anora promised me they’d bring Howe to justice,” he sighs.

            “Hey, I get it. This is personal for you. Howe made it personal when he came after your family. He was stupid enough to let you get away, and now he’s gonna get what’s coming to him. I don’t know what I’d do in your situation, but I’m not going to fault you for this. Wanting revenge is perfectly normal. I’m here, and I’ll keep you from going too far if I have to set the son of a bitch on fire myself,” she tells him, linking her fingers through his.

            “You’re amazing, you know,” he says, a half-smile on his face as he leans down, pressing his lips against hers. She’d expected him to be more confident, more controlling, but his kisses are hesitant and unsure. She pulls back and stares up at him for a moment.

            “We should sleep. We’ve got a long way to go,” she murmurs. He nods, shifting so he can lay them down, pulling her tight against his chest. She turns until she’s facing him, burying her face in his shirt, and they try to sleep.

* * *

            The second day passes the same as the first. Occasionally, Lysander tries to break the silence with conversation, but mostly the two of them ride lost in their own thoughts. It is on the third day that things change. With the sun high in the sky, Lysander leads them off of the main road and through the woods, along a hidden trail.

            “We’re getting close to Highever, now. It’ll be dangerous if we’re seen on the main road,” he tells her. She tries to ignore the way panic flares up in her stomach, making her clutch the reins tighter. She doesn’t know what’s waiting for them, and she’s not sure she wants to find out. They’re too far to turn around now, though, and she knows she couldn’t find it in her heart to deny this to Lysander.

            “So, on a scale of one to ‘we’re dead,’ how angry do you think Cailan and Anora will be once we return?” Arya asks, ten minutes later. The silence had grown oppressive, and she didn’t think she could endure much more of it.  

            “They’re probably definitely going to flog us into repentance,” Lysander replies, a grin on his face. He doesn’t seem too worried, though, not like she is. For all that she wants to keep him from being guilty, she’s not sure they’ve done the right thing.

            “I’d pay money to see Cailan try to flog someone. I mean, come on, have you seen him? I think he’d break down crying,” she says. It’s easier to joke than it is to think about what might actually happen upon their return, if they’re lucky enough to make it out of Highever.

            “I’m sure he’ll go easy on you, kitten. I plan on taking the blame for this anyway,” he says, reaching over and squeezing her knee.

            “I’m not gonna let you take the blame for this, Lysander. I mean, yeah, you came up with the idea, but I’m here willingly. Although, I don’t think I’d mind being kidnapped by you,” she replies, catching his eye and grinning as he draws his hand back.

            “Be careful what you wish for. You’re giving me all kinds of wicked ideas,” he says, a half-grin on his face as he turns his eyes back to the road. Up ahead, it narrows, and Arya doubts both horses can walk side-by-side. She tugs on the reins just enough to get her horse to slow so Lysander can draw ahead.

            “Are they naughty ideas? Naughty ideas are the best ones,” she says. He glances over his shoulder at her, the grin still on his face as he rolls his eyes.

            “And Anora always told me I was the naughty one. I think you’re giving me a run for my money, kitten,” he says, but there’s fondness in his voice.

            “I don’t know, I think you might be a lot naughtier than I am,” she says, and she tries to keep a straight face but she can’t fight the grin off for long.

            “Maybe we’ll have to ask Cailan and Anora when we get back,” he counters. She can almost see the matching grin on his face.

            “Maybe that’ll make them forgive us,” she says, and she tries to swallow the worry she’s feeling.

            “Maybe we’re worrying for nothing. Maybe we’ll get back and they’ll give us a big medal for kicking so much ass here and then we’ll have some great makeup sex and it’ll all be over,” Lysander says. She can see the stiffness of his shoulders, though, and she can hear the tightness in his voice.

            “Hey, we can dream. Maybe they won’t be mad. Maybe they’ll be so worried they won’t know what to do with themselves and we can say that we’re big fucking heroes,” she says, and if a little bitterness seeps into her voice, well, they both pretend not to notice.

            “Maybe, kitten, maybe. I bet that pretty witch of yours will be glad to have you back in one piece,” he says.

            “If she doesn’t have to mount a rescue mission. If she does, she’ll kick both of our asses,” Arya replies, a fond smile on her face. She runs her thumb along the ever-changing surface of the ring. She wonders if Morrigan knows she’s thinking about her.

            “Will she even be able to find us?” Lysander asks. There’s an unspoken end to this sentence, _if something goes wrong_ , that they both pretend not to hear.

            “Yeah. She’s good, like that. She’ll be able to find us,” she answers. She doesn’t tell him about the ring. She wants some part of Morrigan that belongs to her, and her alone.

            “Well, now I feel much better, knowing someone like that might come to our rescue,” he says, and they lapse into silence again. Somehow, it’s more bearable this time.

* * *

            It is dusk when they finally arrive at Highever. Arya casts a silencing spell as soon as they slip off their horses. She’s too keyed up to notice how sore and stuff her muscles are, her stomach fluttering with anticipation. She drags a hand through her hair, pacing back and forth while Lysander makes sure the horses are secure. She can feel a memory pressing against the edges of her mind, giving her a headache, but she pushes it away.

            “Are you ready?” Lysander asks, silently appearing next to her. She almost jumps before she turns to him, brown eyes wide with worry.

            “As we’ll ever be, I suppose. What’s the plan?” she asks, reaching out and linking her fingers with his. His eyes soften as he pulls her closer, letting out a deep breath of his own.

            “There’s an entrance ‘round back for the servants. There’s two men guarding it. We’ll need to take them out somehow, drag them out here to the brush. We’ll need to take their armor and put it on, and then it should be pretty easy going from there. I’ve got a contact in the kitchens that can help- Howe was stupid if he thought Nan would stand for any of this. We’ll come out in the larder, so Nan will be able to get us through the rest of the palace. There’ll be minimal risk once we take out the guards, but if we run into any trouble, let me do the talking,” he explains, his hand tightening on hers.

            “I can use a sleeping spell on the guards. We’ll have to leave them bound and gagged next to the horses, but hopefully it won’t pose too much of a challenge. Will the armor fit me?” she asks, standing on her tiptoes to peer through the trees. She can’t see the guards, though.

            “One of them is built like a wall. We should be able to fit it over the armor you’re wearing, if nothing else,” he assures her. She nods, taking a deep breath. She leans up on her tiptoes, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

            “Let’s do this,” she says, and then she slips through the trees, her footsteps silent as she crouches among the shadows. Lysander hovers behind her as she lets a spell build between her hands, her eyes narrowed. One of the guards has his helmet off, sitting in front of the door and twirling a knife between his fingers. The other one, the big one, is standing, his arms crossed. Arya can see how annoyed he is with his fellow guard, even with the helmet covering his face.

            “Can you hit both of them at once?” Lysander asks, his breath tickling her ear. She nods, furrowing her brows in concentration before throwing her hands out. Two spheres of light shoot towards the guards, hitting them before either notice. There’s a long, uncomfortable second where nothing happens, but then the big one slumps over and the small one’s head chin hits his chest. Arya lets out a breath she hadn’t known she had been holding, and she and Lysander slip out of the shadows, dragging the guards back into the brush with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for reading! i know it's slow going, and i know i'm slogging through filler right now, and i'm barely getting through all the crap i'm going to have to wade through to get where this fic is going (and then the sequel, and then the sequel's sequel!), but i have solid ideas for where this needs to go. that being said, there is some room for added scenes, so if you have a scene you'd like to see between any of the characters appearing in this fic, feel free to let me know, and i'll do my best to incorporate it (after all, i need plenty of bonding between everyone!) 
> 
> if you don't have any ideas or anything you specifically want to see, feel free to leave a comment anyway. i really appreciate them and i always do my best to respond to all of them. see ya next time!!


	33. i'll tell you my sins

            Anora is no stranger to diplomacy. She is every inch a queen, used to keeping her composure even in the worst circumstances. Standing across from the raven-haired witch is the only time she has ever been tested.

            “What do you mean _you let them go_?” she growls, slamming her hands down on the table. The witch shifts, her golden eyes narrowed.

            “I took precautions. I am not as foolish as you may believe,” Morrigan answers lightly, crossing her arms over her chest.

            “The point of the matter is that you let them go, Morrigan. I’ve seen you in action. How could you let her go if you care about her half as much as you claim to?” Cailan asks from his place by the window. He looks older than he ever has before, haggard and worn, the circles under his eyes dark.

            Morrigan stills, her posture shifting. “How _dare_ you?” she breathes, a wooden ring on her finger glinting with enchantment as she clenches her fists. Cailan turns to face her, lips twisted in a frown.

            “I’m not the one who let them walk out of here,” he returns. A snarl bursts out of her lips and Morrigan stalks across the room to stand in front of him, nearly vibrating with anger.

            “If you fools would give me half a moment to explain, perhaps I could. I would never have let Arya go if I didn’t have a way to make sure she’s safe. Right now she’s nervous in her abilities, nervous that they will be caught, but she is fine,” she spits.

            “You’ve yet to tell us your brilliant plan that lets us know for certain they’re safe,” Anora reminds her, directing a cold glare at the witch as she moves to stand next to Cailan. She is nearly the same height as her husband, standing with her back straight, a defiant tilt to her jaw. Morrigan draws herself up to her full height.

            “Do you see this ring on my finger? Arya wears its mate. ‘Tis an enchantment, an ancient one, that tells me what she is feeling and if she is in distress. And should the need arise, it will lead me to her. I would never let her do something so reckless without me otherwise. Respecting the wishes of others is not so foreign a concept to me that I would have refused them this. The Cousland boy seemed to need this, and yet you would deny him this. Need I remind you that you insisted he go through the courts? Had you not insisted, perhaps he would have come to you first,” she says, her voice cold and hard, her eyes flashing.

            “We are the monarchs of Fereldan. Of course we insist Lysander go through the courts. If we allow him to take his own vengeance, what will that show the rest of the country? We’d have civil war breaking out over imagined disputes!” Anora protests. Morrigan doesn’t answer, merely stares her down until Cailan sighs, dragging his hand over his face.

            “Arya would have known how important that would be to him. And she can’t say no. Not to something like that,” he says. Morrigan hesitates. She’s never seen anyone look so _tired_ before.

            “That’s precisely why I never attempted to stop her. It is her choice to follow him,” she murmurs, her voice soft. The steel melts out of her.

            “Should we go after them?” Anora asks, suddenly uncertain.

            “No. They’re all the way in Highever now. The best we can do is wait for their return,” Cailan answers. He stands, straightening his shoulders again.

             “I suppose now we should work out how to react once they come back to us,” Anora says, dragging her hand through her hair and undoing the braid it had been in.

              “I will go, and leave this discussion for the two of you,” Morrigan says, turning. Anora nods distractedly as Cailan wraps his arms around her shoulders. The witch lets the door close behind her, and pads down the hall to Arya’s bedroom.

* * *

            An old woman meets them in the larder. Her face is wrinkled with age, her grey hair swept up into a tight bun. Her face is haggard and worn, but her eyes light up when she sees Lysander, his helmet off the moment she steps through the door.

“Never thought I’d see you again, boy,” she says, pulling him down into a hug. Arya looks away and tries to pretend she didn’t see the tears in the woman’s eyes as Lysander hugs her back, his face buried in the crook of her neck.

“Never thought I’d see you again, either, Nan,” he says, sniffing. She laughs weakly, pulling back to pat his cheek.

“I’m too important for Howe’s men to kill me,” she says, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Of course you are, Nan. Highever wouldn’t be Highever without you,” he says, a tired smile on his face. For all the times Arya has seen him smile, she has never seen him look quite like this. He looks like the boy he is, barely twenty-one, his armor ill-fitting and his grip on his daggers loose.

“You’re damn right it wouldn’t! Now put that helmet back on your head, boy. I’ve a cart loaded with food that’s going straight to Arl Howe,” she says, taking a moment to compose herself before bustling back into the kitchen, loading plates and trays onto a cart. Lysander takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders before slipping the helmet back over his head. Arya reaches out, slipping her hand into his. The gauntlets bang together, and she can see a smile twitching at the corners of Nan’s mouth as she lets go again.

Nan sets a brisk pask through the castle, Arya and Lysander left to march along after her. Highever is a twisting maze the same way that the palace in Denerim is, and Arya is soon left with the knowledge that she would never be able to find her way back out without Lysander or Nan. Lysander, for his part, is tense, his head turning sideways as he sweeps his gaze across the corridors. She wishes she could reach out and take his hand.

“Hey! You there!” a man calls out. Arya almost flinches, and Lysander’s hand drops to his sword as they all turn around. The man approaching them is a guard, but he only wears the standard armored boots. He is dressed in rumpled casual clothes, the left sleeve torn. He has something clutched in his right hand, and he looks nervous.

“What do you want?” Nan demands, her hands on her hips. The man ignores her, instead focusing his gaze on Arya. She reaches inside her, pulling on the well of magic that surges within her. If she’s forced to act, gods only know how messy this will get.

“Sven! Glad I caught up with you. I’ve been looking all over the castle for Gwen. I’ve something for her. You haven’t seen her, by any chance, have you?” he asks. She almost panics. If she answers him, her voice will clearly be different than Sven’s, if that’s truly the guard whose armor she stole.

It is then she remembers a spell. _She clings to the upper branches of a tree, the leaves cloaking her in shadow. “Lanaste!” she calls, using a simple illusion spell to make her voice different than it is. The sound bounces around the courtyard, and Lanaste swings his head from side to side, his mouth open as he breathes in the air._

_“I know it’s you, Bellanaris! I can smell you!” he calls out. She giggles, the spell still in effect._

_“But can you find me?” she asks. The branches beside her shift, a light breeze blowing as Abelas shifts. He gives her a grin that she returns._

_“Maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I’ll just stroll on inside and eat the best meal I’ve ever had, while you stay hidden in the garden,” he calls out, but there’s a light note of teasing in his voice._

She comes out of the memory almost painfully, aware that the guard is staring expectantly at her. She reaches for the wellspring of magic, weaving the spell around the room.

“No, I’m afraid I’ve not seen her today,” she answers, and her voice sounds deep and gravelly. The man dips his head at her.

“Thank you anyway, Sven. I’ll keep looking,” he says, and he heads off the direction they’d just come from. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief as he turns around the corner.

“How did you do that?” Lysander asks, his voice quiet enough that only she can hear him over the squeaking of the cart’s wheels.

“It was a spell. From Arlathan,” she answers, and he lets the subject drop.

After that, no one questions them, and she doesn’t know if it’s because they look like they belong or if it is because they stick to servant’s halls. Nan gets a couple of nods and that’s it. Arya isn’t sure whether to be unsettled or grateful, so she gets stuck somewhere in between the two of them until they come out into a grand hall. Lysander tenses up behind her, his gaze fixed ahead of them on a large, ornate door. Two guards stand on either side, slouched over, but as they see Nan wheeling her cart towards them they snap to attention.

“We weren’t told about a relief guard,” one of them says, his voice gruff with suspicion. Arya’s breath catches in her throat, her heart stuttering in her chest.

“You see all the food? This is all here by request. I’m an old woman, young man, nowhere near as strong as I once was. I need the help. I’m sure you’ll appreciate your time off,” she says, folding a towel and swatting it through the air. The guard stares her down for a moment, but Nan, bless her, stares right back at him, her hands on her hips and a frown on her face.

Arya holds her breath.

The guard moves aside, nodding his head at his partner.

They walk down the hall.

Arya’s breath leaves her suddenly, and Nan gives them a smug grin that fades into a concerned frown. “Are you two ready for this?” she asks, but she doesn’t take her eyes off of Lysander. He reaches out, and Arya puts her hand in his, squeezing gently.

“I am,” he answers, his voice rough. Nan nods towards the door, and Arya lets her hand fall to her side as Lysander steps forward, knocking twice before pushing the door open. Arya pushes the cart into the room. Nan stays outside, nodding at them with a hard glint in her eyes.

Howe is sitting at a desk, his body half-turned towards the door, a quill clutched in his hands. His nearest weapon lies on the bed, along with his armor. He is utterly defenseless, and Lysander has gone utterly still.

“Well? Where’s that useless cook?” he demands, and Lysander lets the door thud shut.

“I think you might want to change your tone,” Arya says, and she lets go of the cart, pulling her helmet off. She starts working on her gloves next, and Lysander has his gaze locked on Howe as he reaches up to his helmet.

“What’s going on?” Howe demands. Lysander removes his helmet, a strange grin on his face.

“Just the average story of revenge, Rendon. It wasn’t anything personal, of course, until you butchered my family in their beds,” he says, and he lets the helmet thud to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i could have kept this chapter going and i really, really thought about it but i also wanted to go ahead and give you guys what content i could. the next chapter is in the works but that may take awhile because university has slammed me harder than i ever expected. hang in there guys i promise i'll have it up as soon as i can. 
> 
> however, i have a couple of questions for you. i've gotten feedback from one reader already, but: i'm trying to branch out in my writing and that's started to include real smut. would you prefer if i kept this M rated or went ahead and bumped it up to E and wrote some real smut? the smut won't be for a few chapters but it's good to get things squared away in advance. secondly: would any of you guys be interested if i started a tumblr exclusively for this fic? i could post sneak peeks, run some aesthetic tags for the characters, answer any questions, post extra content, etc. is that a thing people want, or nah? please leave a comment letting me know- if there isn't any interest shown i just won't start the blog so no harm done. 
> 
> hope you all enjoyed!!!


	34. and you can sharpen your knife

            Out of all the things in Thedas that Arya hadn’t expected, the fear on Rendon Howe’s is perhaps the most shocking. It is only there for a split second, before the man forces his lips into a grin that stretches almost unnaturally across his face. There’s a manic gleam in his eyes, and she can see him dropping into a defensive stance already, even though his armor is piled at the foot of the bed, his weapon far enough away that it won’t do him any good. For good measure, Arya moves between them, shedding the bulky metal plate so she stands in her leather armor.

            “Well, well. Bryce Cousland’s little boy, all grown up and still trying to fit into Daddy’s armor. What would Bryce think of this, I wonder?” he asks, and she can see Lysander’s face harden.

            “I don’t see why it matters what my father would think. I think that it stopped mattering when you killed him in his own home,” he snarls back, and then he moves. Despite all the time she’d spent training with him, all the times she’d watched him move, she’d never imagined he could be this fast. He’s there at Howe before she can even blink, has him by the collar of his shirt. He slams him against the wall, lifts up just enough to make Howe choke. He brings his fist back before slamming it into his face. Blood streams from his nose, bright and hot, and Arya tries not to flinch.

            She has never seen Lysander look so angry.

            “You know, I made your mother kiss my feet before I killed her. It was the last thing your father ever saw,” Howe taunts, baring his bloody teeth in a snarl. Lysander growls, and then he throws Howe across the room. He lands in an undignified heap at Arya’s feet before he starts to rise, and Lysander’s hand goes to the knife at his belt.

           _For months, everywhere Fen’Harel had gone, he’d been met with soldiers, all of them bearing the marks of Elgar’nan. It had taken weeks of meticulously examining every member of the Dread Wolf’s council before the traitor was found, and Bellanaris finds herself pacing outside a door leading to the dark depths of a dungeon._

_“I want him dead,” she snarls, and all she can see is the knife sinking into Lanaste’s stomach, his mouth falling open as he fell to his knees. They’d been lucky enough that Mythal was there, that she could pour enough healing magic into him to keep him alive, but Bellanaris had never been so angry, not even when she’d stood in front of Dirthamen and Falon’Din, her arms bound behind her back, her teeth bared in a snarl as her chest heaved. She’d fought like a wild thing when she’d been brought in, but the anger she feels now runs deeper than that ever did._

_“And he will be. Eventually,” Abelas answers. He stands next to her, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest._

_“Why can’t I be the one to get the information out of him? He almost killed Lanaste. I have a vested interest in keeping it from happening again,” she says, and she starts pacing, restless energy building up until she was desperate to give it an outlet._

_“Because it’s different when it’s personal. If you walk into that chamber as angry as you are now, you won’t be trying to get information. You’ll be trying to make him hurt. And you will not be the same person when you walk out,” he tells her, moving forward and taking her hands in his. His thumb ghosts along her knuckles, his brow furrowed in concern._

_“Does that matter?” she asks, but all the fight has drained out of her, like she knows the answer already._

_“Yes. There will be more in the days to come. There will always be more. And one day you will be unlucky enough to be given the assignment of extracting information. It is better that Solas handle it,” he tells her, and then he pulls her into a hug, letting her bury her face in his chest._

            She steps in front of Lysander, her hand coming up and wrapping around his wrist. He looks down at her, not so far gone that he can’t recognize her. His brow furrows in confusion.

            “What are you doing? This is what we’re here for,” he says, and she shakes her head.

            “You don’t want it to be personal. Let me do it,” she says, and she calls a ball of fire to her hand. At their feet, Howe’s eyes widen and his struggles to push himself to his feet renew.

            “I…Arya?” he asks, and she has never seen him look so confused.

            “It’s different if it’s personal, Lysander. If you want to draw it out, you let me do it. Otherwise, you kill him quick,” she says, and she lets go of his wrist to put her hands on her hips, the fire extinguished. He stares at her for a moment, considering, and then he sheathes his knife and steps back, gesturing to Howe.

            She leans down, grabbing him by the hair and forcing his head back. He glares up at her, but he can’t quite mask the fear in his eyes as she summons the fire again.

            “You know, Lysander has the King and the Queen in his pocket. So do I. And Cailan and Anora wanted us to wait, to go through the legal systems and see you brought to your knees in the throne room,” she says, her voice low and throaty, a mockery of the seductive tone she’d used on Morrigan, on Lysander, before. Howe growls, tries to thrash away until she brings the fire close enough that he can feel the heat.

            “Do you think I care about any of that, you knife-eared bitch?” he hisses, but he still flinches away from the flickering flames.

            “I don’t think you care about anything, Howe, except for yourself. And you know what else I think? I think that’s going to make this fun,” she purrs. She draws the dagger from her belt and slips it under the hem of his shirt, cutting upward in a swift, decisive movement. The tip of the dagger grazes his skin just enough to remind him it is there, leaving a long welt on his chest. He snarls, thrashing against her, and it’s enough that she throws a paralysis spell around him.

            “It doesn’t matter how much the King and Queen care about you. They’ll never stand for a little knife-ear like you killing one of the most esteemed arls in all of Ferelden. Especially not a mage. They’ll give you the brand for that, and you can be their little whore,” he spits. Lysander goes stiff behind her, but the predatory grin doesn’t slip off of Arya’s face. The fire in her hand burns hotter, and she spreads her palm out. She gives him enough time to understand her intent, but before he can react she presses her palm against his chest.

            The stench of burning flesh fills the room.

            Rendon Howe screams.

            Lysander flinches.

            When she pulls her hand away, Howe has screamed until his voice has given out. There is a handprint burned black onto his chest, just below his heart, and Arya pretends like she isn’t hovering between two worlds, that it isn’t an elven agent of Falon’Din she sees at her feet. Howe glares up at her, but there’s a resignation in his eyes, as if he has accepted that this is how he dies. Lysander reaches out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. She blinks, turning to him with a question in her eyes. For some reason, she’d expected to look into silver eyes instead of brown.

            “Enough. I’ll kill him quick. We should get going, anyway. That scream probably alerted everyone in the castle,” he says, his voice hoarse. She nods, stepping back, and she lets the paralysis spell fall away. She makes herself useful by barricading the door. It will buy them enough time to get them out of Highever alive, she supposes. Lysander kneels down, the knife steady in his hand, and he places the edge against Howe’s throat.

            “Maker spit on you. I deserved more,” Howe says, and then Lysander draws the blade across his throat, blood flowing hot across his hands. He lowers him to the floor gently, wiping the knife on Howe’s breeches, and then he stands.

            “How are we getting out of here?” Arya asks, turning away from the door. Lysander walks over to the window, his shoulders stooped under the weight of the family he couldn’t bring back.

            “We can’t go out the window, not without breaking something. I could probably get down, but I doubt you can. We can’t go back in the hall, either. Any ideas?” he asks, his fingers gripping the windowsill. When he steps away, he leaves bloodied fingerprints behind, pressed into the white paint.

            “I don’t know the castle. There’s not any secret passages into the room, are there?” she asks, and she’s already thinking ahead. Jumping out the window with a barrier spell active? Maybe, but she doesn’t know if she’s got enough mana left to hold it and she doesn’t have any lyrium with her. She can’t remember any low level illusion spells to get them out of this, either.

            She has never been so frustrated with the Dread Wolf until now.

            “No. There isn’t,” he says. She walks over to the window, looking down. It’s not a fall that would kill her, even if she didn’t have a barrier. She thinks she can do this.

            “Okay. Out the window it is then. You can climb down. I’ll hold a barrier and jump,” she says, shrugging. She opens the window, getting ready to climb out.

            “Are you sure you’ll be all right? I don’t want…I don’t want to see you get hurt,” he says, a hand reaching out to steady her. She looks over her shoulder at him, and there’s a distant, faraway look in his eyes.

            “I’ll be fine. What about Nan? I don’t want her getting hurt for letting us in here,” she says. She reaches up, lacing their fingers together. If she minds getting blood on her hands, she doesn’t show it.

            “Nan is…she should be at the horses when we get there. I told her where we would leave them,” he answers. Arya nods, and opens her mouth to say something else when the door shudders under the force of a knock.

            “We have to go now. Can you climb down in time?” she asks, her eyes searching his. He hesitates for half a heartbeat before he nods.

            “Don’t worry about me. Just go,” he says. She nods, yanking him down to press her lips against his, and then she slides out of his grip and onto the window ledge. There’s a light breeze blowing, enough to tug at her hair as she activates the barrier. Once, when she was seven years old, she’d climbed the tallest tree in her yard. She’d stood at the top, the wind tugging at her as she looked out over their yard. Her mother must have seen her through the kitchen window, because she’d ran out of the house, panicked and yelling for her to get down. Arya had laughed, and then she had fallen. It had felt like she’d hit every single branch on the way down, and she’d wound up with a broken wrist and a cast that she’d had to wear until she was sick of the damn thing. Her mother had cried the entire drive to the emergency room, and Arya hadn’t understood until she was older. She’d been the one with the broken wrist, and yet she’d lain in the backseat, curled up against the door, dry-eyed and asking for an ice cream on the way home.

            She wonders, in the half-second she stands on the edge, if she will ever see her mother again. She isn’t sure that she wants to.

She lets herself fall, tipping over the edge, and she closes her eyes as the ground rushes up to meet her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! i hope you all enjoyed this update!! i hope the next one won't take as long, but, again, university is kicking my ass and i'm going to be covered up even over fall break with work so yay me i guess. 
> 
> anyway, i didn't get any responses before so i'll go ahead and ask again: would anyone be bothered if i tried to include, well, actual smut? i kept the scenes already here pretty general and nondescriptive but i want to push myself as a writer and this is one of the areas i want to do that with.  
> also, would anyone be interested if i made a blog specifically about this fic? like i said in the last chapter i could post snippets of chapters in progress, headcanons about the characters, scenes that were cut from the fic, etc. 
> 
> ANYWAY i hope you enjoyed i'll catch ya next time!!! feel free to leave a comment, i usually always respond!


	35. a band of thieves in ripped up jeans

Arya hits the ground with a sickening crack before rolling onto her back. The pain comes a second later, threatening to overwhelm her. It hadn’t been this bad when she was a girl, but now she has to let her eyes drift shut so she doesn’t throw up. A half-second drags past, and then she remembers.

* * *

 

_“Are you sure you know this spell well enough?” Abelas asks her from his spot on the ground. He peers up into the tree canopy, a fondly exasperated look on his face._

_“It’s the same as a regular barrier, isn’t it?” Bellanaris calls back down, but she doesn’t look apprehensive as she walks the length of a branch. It dips and sways under her weight, but it holds firm. She doesn’t think she has ever been so high up before- she cannot even make out the details of Abelas’ expression._

_“You should know by now that it’s a different technique, one that protects you from the force of your fall. It’s different than what you would need to block a blade or a spell. Perhaps you should climb back down, attempt this later, when you can tell me the difference yourself,” he calls up. She can picture the concerned frown on his face perfectly- it’s an expression he wears often enough, when it comes to her._

_“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Besides, Mythal is inside. She’s good enough at healing that I’ll be fine. This fall isn’t enough to kill me,” she calls back down. She slows down, barely creeping along the branch. It’s nearly too thin to bear her weight anymore, but she doesn’t want to risk hitting any other branches on the way down._

_Abelas doesn’t respond, merely steps back out of the way. Bellanaris stops, measuring the distance left on the branch. She decides she cannot go any farther, not without the branch buckling completely, and so she peers back down at the ground, giving Abelas a small wave. And then she jumps, sailing through the air with a shriek of laughter._

_The barrier shatters as she hits the ground, enough that the wind is knocked out of her and her leg breaks. She collapses, swearing, her eyes prickling with tears as she grits her teeth. Abelas is at her side a moment later, bundling her into his arms._

_“I’s okay, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his hand patting her shoulder gently as he carries her. She curls against him, sniffling as she blinks away her tears, her fingers curling into fists in the loose material of his shirt._

_“No ‘I told you so’?” she asks him, a wry smile on her face. He pauses long enough to look down at her, a fond expression on his face._

_“Not while you are still in pain, vhenan,” he answers._

* * *

 

            Arya’s eyes open to a pair of boots. There is a moment of horrible disorientation before the man wearing the boots kneels down, worry shining in Lysander’s eyes.

            “Are you all right?” he asks, reaching down to brush her hair out of her face. She groans, pushing herself up into a sitting position.

            “My ankle. Must not have gotten the spell right. I don’t know if it’s broken, but it hurts like a bitch,” she says. He presses a quick kiss to her forehead before scooping her up in his arms.

            “There’s no time. We need to get into the woods- the trees will give us some cover,” he says. He sticks close to the castle walls, moving quickly as Arya tries to make herself smaller.

            “That’s okay. Never liked walking anyway,” she says. She twitches her feet, trying to feel out the injury. Only one of them hurts, and she thanks every god she can think of. It also doesn’t feel broken, and she prays it’s only sprained. Either way, she knows it’s beyond her capabilities as a healer.

            Lysander dashes from cover to cover, until they’re well within the forest. He puts her down carefully, letting her take her weight as she can. Hesitantly, she puts her ankle on the ground, then draws in a sharp breath.

            “Not happening,” she tells him, frowning. It doesn’t hurt as bad as it did before, but it still hurts too much for her to even consider walking on it. Lysander sighs, crouching down and throwing her arm over his shoulders, his arm going around her waist.

            “This would be easier if you were taller,” he grumbles, and Arya manages a laugh as they limp through the forest.

            “Are you sure we’re going the right way? Because if you drag me all the way through the forest only to get me lost, I don’t know if I’ll be able to forgive you,” she teases. He laughs, gently pinching her side.

            “We aren’t lost, kitten. I know this part of the forest like the back of my hand. We’ll be back where we started in a couple of minutes. Nan should be waiting with the horses. We can ride one together, let Nan have her own. Don’t think she’d forgive either of us, otherwise,” he says, but his grip on her waist tightens just a little.

            “You’re worried about her, aren’t you?” Arya asks, her voice dropping until it’s just barely above a whisper.

            “She’s all I have left. Howe killed everyone else in Highever. And as much as I wanted him to suffer, to pay for what he’s done…I couldn’t let you be the one to do it. I don’t care if I bloody my own hands, but I don’t want you doing that for me. I don’t…I don’t want you to have that on your conscience, not when it should be on mine. But…I don’t think I would have stopped, if he’d killed Nan too. She just about raised me. Mother and Father were always busy with their duties, and they tried to make time for me, but it wasn’t enough. I think…I think it would have been worse, if Nan were the one to die instead of Mother,” he tells her, the words leaving him in a rush, almost like he was scared to say them.

            “She’ll be fine. I don’t know her that well, but she’s stubborn enough that it’d take more than Howe’s goons to kill her,” she tells him, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. The come into the clearing then, and Nan is leaning against the tree, her arms crossed over her chest.

            “You’re damn right it’ll take more than that, girl,” she says, but there’s a soft smile on her face and she reaches up to take Arya away from Lysander until he can get the horses.

            “It damned well better, Nan,” Lysander tells her. He checks on the guards, still unconscious where they lay. He cuts through their bonds enough so they’ll be able to break it when they wake before he unties the horses, checking their saddles.

            “So, girl, I suppose now is the time for introductions. You can call me Nan like your boy over there does,” she says. Her grip is gentle, and she shifts Arya until she’s leaning up against the tree.

            “Nice to meet you, Nan. My name is Arya,” she replies. Nan hums in acknowledgement as she gently pulls off Arya’s boot. Her ankle is swollen, but it doesn’t look half as bad as Arya had feared.

            “Definitely not broken, but I don’t have anything to help and we’re too close to the castle for comfort. I can try to help when we stop for the night, if you like,” Nan tells her, before tugging the boot back up just as Lysander leads the horses over.

            “Thank you. I appreciate it,” she says, a faint smile on her face. All in all, she thinks they did rather good, getting in and out without getting seriously injured.

            Lysander boosts Nan up onto the mare that Arya had previously ridden, before helping Arya onto his horse. She pats the creature’s neck as Lysander hauls himself up behind her. He wraps his arms around her, and kicks his heels into the horse’s side. Nan does the same, and they’re off, the horses running to carry them as far away from the castle as they can get.

* * *

            Morrigan is half asleep, curled up on one end of the couch in Cailan’s room, when she feels it. She jerks awake with a gasp, her hand moving to grasp at her ankle. Cailan stirs across from the opposite end of the couch, sitting up.

            “What is it?” he asks, reaching for his sword.

            “It’s Arya. I…I think she’s fallen or something, sprained her ankle,” she says, blinking. She can barely feel it anymore, can only feel the ghost of pain. She knows it’s worse for Arya, knows the connection between them is fragile.

            “Are they okay? Are they coming home?” Cailan asks, sitting up and moving towards her. Anora stirs from the bed, sitting up. None of them had gotten any real sleep since Lysander and Arya had left, and Loghain had been kind enough to postpone all of their meetings, with the excuse that Cailan needed more time to recover from his ordeal.

            “I…I think so. She’s nervous, but she feels like…feels like they’ve won. I think the pain has faded a little, too,” Morrigan relays, twisting the ring around and around on her finger.

            “So what are we going to do?” Anora asks, her voice husky from sleep.

            “I could fly towards them, meet them before they get here,” Morrigan offers. Cailan bites his lip, clearly tempted.

            “I don’t want to say no, but if you do that, how will Anora and I get any information?” he asks.

            “I suppose you have a point. You aren’t going to yell at them for this, are you?” she asks.

            “No. They made their own choices. We’ll let them know we didn’t approve, let them know we were worried, but we aren’t here to control them,” Anora says, dragging her hand through her hair. One of her braids has come undone.

            “We may have to take Lysander on trial, but we’ll be the judges if we do. We aren’t going to convict him,” Cailan adds. Morrigan nods, more at ease now than she had been earlier.

            “I think I shall wait until they’re an hour’s ride away and meet them, ease their thoughts about what reception they’ll get upon return. It’ll be another day or so before they get back, and they’ll probably come back slower,” she says.

            “You’re sure they’re safe?” Cailan asks, leaning forward nervously.

            “As sure as I can be, yes. Arya isn’t abnormally distressed, aside from the pain in her ankle, and I doubt she’d be so calm if Lysander were injured. Unless I fly there to check myself, I’ll have no way to be certain, though,” Morrigan tells him. The room lapses into silence, then, Anora laying back down but turning on her side to face the others. Cailan stands, stretching until his joints pop, before he puts another log on the fire.

            For the first time since Arya had left, Morrigan lets herself breathe, the knot of anxiety in her stomach disappearing. She spins the ring idly as she watches the flames. Hurry home, she thinks, as she pulls her knees up to her chest.


	36. home is where the heart is

            Nan starts fussing with Arya’s ankle as soon as they make camp, bony fingers poking and prodding. Arya hisses, fingers curling in the furs on the bedroll.

            “Christ, Nan, you could be a little more gentle,” she complains. Nan looks up at her, a wry grin on her face.

            “I don’t have to help at all, girl. I have to find out how bad you’ve managed to hurt yourself, jumping out of that window like a damned fool,” she retorts. Arya looks up at Lysander pleading, but he only flashes her a grin across the fire, poking at the flames with a stick. She gives him a pout in return.

            “I’d have a lot worse that a sprained ankle if Howe’s men had found me in the castle, Nan,” Arya reminds, trying to keep her ankle as still as possible. Nan’s shredded Lysander’s spare shirt, there’s a potion boiling over the fire, and Arya thinks Nan’s got a good shot at fixing this without magic, but damn if doesn’t hurt.

            “Probably. But the point is that you need to sit still and let me work,” Nan tells her, so Arya bites her lip and leans back. Lysander gets up from his place by the fire and slides in behind her, propping her up in his lap. He reaches up, brushing the hair out of her eyes. She gives him a faint smile that turns into a grimace again at another particularly sharp prod from Nan’s fingers.

            “So, what are you going to do? Just use the shirt scraps as a brace?” she asks, peering down at Nan. Dusk is well on it’s way and the flickering shadows of the fire doesn’t make it much easier to see what the woman is doing.

            “That’s right. The potion up there should help with the pain as well as speed up the healing process. It’ll hold you over until we can get another mage to look at it, and the bindings should keep you from worsening the injury,” she tells her. She leans back for a moment, stretching, before she bends back over Arya’s ankle, gathering the strips of the t-shirt.

            “You know, she had to do this for me all the time when I was little,” Lysander tells her, shifting so his mouth is right next to her ear. A small shudder runs down her spine as his breath ghosts over her neck, but his voice is distracting enough to keep her focused on him.

            “Tell me a story,” she says, looking up at him, firelight dancing across his face. He smiles, leaning down to kiss her forehead, before he settles into to tell her about when he was a boy and the world was big and bright and full of hope.

* * *

            Leliana and the others arrive in Denerim as night falls over the city. Eliza leads the group towards the palace, where warm food and warm baths and soft beds await. Sten takes up the rear, guarding them from anything they might happen to run into, and the rest of their party is interspersed between the two. Anders walks with Wynne, their shoulders brushing in case he stumbles. “It’s beautiful,” he breathes, tilting his head back to take in the city.

            “You made it to Denerim the last time you escaped,” Wynne reminds him, a fond smile on her face. She’d never really known Anders during the Circle- he was a young rebel and she was older and more responsible, but the man was determined to a fault. He’d insisted they move out when they did, whether he was ready or not, because he was tired of the silhouette of the Circle Tower hovering over his shoulder.

            “I was still a wanted man, then. It’s different, seeing it when you’re a free man,” he tells her. The city stretches for as far as he can see on all sides- they’re getting close to the palace.

            “You aren’t completely free. You just belong to the Wardens now,” Wynne reminds him. His wonder is a little infectious, though, and Wynne remembers the first time she’d been granted permission to leave the Circle.

            “I trust them not to imprison me,” Anders says, a wry grin on his face. He runs a hand through his limp hair, still dull from a year in solitary confinement. But he’s free, now, and the Circle will never be able to do this to him again.

* * *

            Morrigan meets them at a crossroads, sitting on the back of a black mare.

            “Morrigan!” Arya yells, nearly falling off the horse in her haste to dismount. The witch laughs, sliding off of her own mount and reaching out, pulling Arya off the horse and into a hug.

            “It’s so good to see you again. Are you all right? I felt it when you hurt your ankle,” she says, concern shining in her golden eyes.

            “I’m okay, it’s just a sprain. God, it was only a few days, but it feels like it’s been forever since I’ve seen you,” she says, cupping Morrigan’s face in her hands. Morrigan gives her a soft smile.

            “It does indeed. If you’re injured, though, we should hurry back to the palace. Wynne and the others arrived last night, not long after sundown, so she should be able to fix you back up,” she says. Arya nods, turning back to Lysander with a grin.

            “Well, you owe me ten coppers. There’s someone that doesn’t want our heads for this little journey,” she says. He rolls his eyes.

            “And what about Cailan and Anora? I’m sure they want to skin us alive for this,” he says.

            “Actually, I believe they’ll just be glad you’ve returned. They’ve been worried, but I don’t think they’re going to be angry at you,” Morrigan says. Arya lets out a heavy breath, leaning against Morrigan to keep the weight off her sprained ankle.

            “Thank fucking Christ. You hear that, Lysander? That’s two silvers you owe me,” she says, but the look on her face is nothing but relief.

            “Yeah, yeah, kitten, you’ll get your money. I suppose we shouldn’t keep them waiting any longer, though,” Lysander says. Morrigan boosts Arya up on her own horse, swinging up behind her.

            “Then let us be off,” the witch says, spurring the horse onwards before anyone can say anything. Nan’s laughter follows them as Lysander nudges his horse into following.

* * *

            Morrigan stops the horses just long enough to dismount fifteen minutes before they reach the palace.

            “What are you doing?” Arya asks, shifting nervously.

            “Going back to the palace. I’ll go ahead of you, so things are ready for you,” she answers.

            “Wait,” Arya says, reaching out and grabbing Morrigan’s wrist. She turns, tilting her face up at her.

            She leans down, moving her hand to Morrigan’s cheek to coax her into standing on her tiptoes. She presses a kiss to Morrigan’s lips, resting their foreheads together for a second. Morrigan curls her fingers around Arya’s wrist.

            Arya pulls back before Nan can fuss at them. “Thank you, Morrigan. For everything,” she says, and the witch gives her a fond smile, reaching up to brush a lock of hair behind Arya’s ear.

            “Of course, you fool,” she murmurs fondly. She checks to make sure there’s nobody else watching, and then a bird is sitting where she stood. She takes off, and Arya watches for a moment before urging the horses on.

* * *

            Cailan and Anora greet them at the gates. Morrigan is nowhere in sight, but Arya isn’t concern. The King and the Queen are the very picture of monarchs until Arya and Lysander slide off their horses- stiff and formal, their hands clasped behind their backs and severe expressions on their faces. The second the travelers’ feet touches the ground, however, they change. Cailan pulls Arya into a hug, mindful of her ankle, and breathes her in. She buries her face in the crook of his neck, and she hadn’t realized she had missed him so badly until she was blinking away tears. Similarly, Anora has pulled Lysander down into a hug, tears streaking her face, before she holds him back at arm’s length and checks him for injuries. 

            “I was so worried,” Cailan breathes in her ear, and she pulls back enough to give him a watery smile.

            “I’m okay. We’re both okay,” she says, as he presses kisses on her forehead, her cheeks, her nose.

            “Good. We should get you both inside, get you to a warm bath. Loghain! Come make sure their friend gets settled in!” Cailan calls out. Anora leads Lysander inside, still fussing over him, and Cailan sweeps his arm underneath Arya’s knees, picking her up.

            “Whoa, tiger. A little warning would be nice,” she says, grinning.

            “Sorry. We’re all just…glad you made it back to us in one piece. I’ll take you to Wynne right now, and we’ll have a private bath waiting for us in your room by the time you get out, with a cart of food from the kitchens. How does that sound?” he asks, smiling down at her.

            “Heavenly,” she answers, and she can hear Nan around the corner, talking Loghain’s ear off.

* * *

            Wynne heals Arya’s ankle in seconds. Cailan leans against the doorway, however, while Wynne pulls Arya into a hug before setting back to berate her.

            “Next time, Miss Huskins, you need to tell people you’re leaving. Cailan and Anora were beside themselves when we got here!” she scolds. Arya has the decency to look sheepish.

            “Sorry, Wynne. Lysander needed me, though, and I couldn’t bring myself to say no to him,” she says. Wynne pulls her into another hug.

            “I know, dear. I’ll let you off the hook, this time. And if you need to come talk to me later, I’ll be right here in my room. I’m sure this will catch up with you soon,” Wynne says, squeezing her hand. Arya smiles gratefully as she slips off the bed.

            “Thank you, Wynne,” she says, stopping for one more hug. The mage gently nudges her towards Cailan as they break apart, and he sweeps her back up, warmth glittering in his eyes. She laughs as they round the corner.

* * *

            She sinks into the bath with a groan as Cailan kneels next to the tub. Her armor is in a pile on the floor in front of the bed, discarded for the moment. She tilts her head back against the rim of the tub, sinking deeper into the water, and lets her eyes drift shut. She hadn’t realized how sore her muscles were until the warmth of the water had begun to relieve them, but she was certainly feeling the recent days spent on horseback.

            “So, how did you hurt your ankle?” Cailan asks, dipping a soft rag into the water before lathering it with soap. He begins to gently work at her skin, washing off the grime of travel. She opens her eyes lazily at the sensation, glancing down at his hand on her leg before relaxing again.

            “I jumped out a window,” she tells him. His hand travels up her stomach, and a shiver runs down her spine as she leans into the touch.

            “Maker, Arya. It’s a wonder you’re back in one piece at all,” he scolds, but his focus is on the rag in his hand.

            “I had a barrier spell up. I just…didn’t do it right. Besides, it was either that or let Howe’s men catch us. It was a close call, and we’re probably lucky we got off so easy. I’m just…really glad to be back. Everything is kind of hitting at once,” she says. She lets Cailan move her limbs around as he likes, basking in the warmth of the water. She feels drained, with the days of anxiety catching up to her. Howe’s scream when she burned him sits heavy in the back of her mind, too, and she knows that’s going to be something she’ll have to deal with. But for now, nothing exists but the warmth of the water, the flickering of the candles, and Cailan’s hand gentle on her skin.

            She falls asleep before he finishes washing her. He chuckles to himself when he notices, finishing up. He hefts her out of the bathtub, wrapping a towel around her and drying her off. He carries her over to the bed, slipping a pair of panties up her thighs and one of his shirts over her head. He presses a kiss to her forehead as he pulls the blankets over her. A knock at the door keeps him from climbing in with her.

            Lysander is standing on the other side in his pajamas, looking a little less worse for the wear after a bath. “She’s asleep,” Cailan says, before he can say anything.

            “I figured. I…didn’t want to stay in my bed by myself,” he admits, running a hand through his hair. Highever haunts him, more than he’s willing to admit.

            “The bed’s big enough for all three of us,” Cailan says, evenly. Lysander looks taken aback for moment before he strides into the room. The door shuts behind him, blocking out the light from the hallway.

            “Are you sure you don’t mind…sharing?” he asks.  Cailan gives him a small smile.

            “Not with you,” he answers. Lysander shrugs and crawls into the bed. Arya curls around him immediately, slinging an arm across his chest and burrowing into his side with a soft sound. Cailan takes a moment to blow the candles out before he joins them on Arya’s other side, pressing a kiss to her forehead before he settles in.

* * *

          _A girl stands in a world that isn’t real, and the landscape shifts around her as she flickers. She can feel someone else burning under her skin, begging to get out, someone that she can’t quite reconcile with herself anymore. She begins to prepare._

_The ritual is dangerous and lengthy, but the girl is determined. When the smoke clears, the girl is not alone. A boy lays on the ground next to her. Both of them are more solid now, neither of them flickering, and the landscape stops shifting around them. She frantically checks for a pulse, breathing a sigh of relief when she finds out._

_The next time they live, they enter the world together, with a promise to find each other again._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! thanks for reading! feel free to comment and let me know what you thought! 
> 
> in case you didn't know, i have a tumblr dedicated to this series, which you can find [here](http://www.riseinperfectlightseries.tumblr.com). it isn't very active right now, but i'm always accepting questions on the blog about the series, and if there was more interest shown i would post updates and snippets and things inbetween my erratic update schedule. 
> 
> there's a lot left to write for this fic, but i hope i can get it finished soon. but don't worry! the end of this fic doesn't mean the end. i have a sequel planned, and i'm doing my absolute best to keep myself under control so i don't go ahead and start writing the sequel. just in case i do, you may want to subscribe to the series as well (if you want, of course!) because the sequel is sort of separate story, until they'll come back together in the third installment.


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